IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


1.1 


11.25 


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111  „  ~«^^^ 

Ijji 


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Fhotographic 

Sciences 

Corparation 


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33  WIST  MAIN  STRMIT 

WIUTIR,N.Y.  I4SM 

(716)l7a^S03 


0 


t 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/ICfViH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Inatituta  for  Hiatorical  Microraproductiona  /  Inatitut  Canadian  da  microraproductiona  hiatoriquaa 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notas/Notas  tachniquas  at  bibliographiquat 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  l>e  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  altar  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  ere  checkeid  below. 


□    Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I   Covers  damaged/ 


D 


D 


D 


D 


D 


Couverture  endommagte 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurie  et/ou  pelliculAe 


I      I   Cover  title  missing/ 


Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  g^ographiques  en  couleur 


□   Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

I      I   Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
ReliA  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  re  liure  serrie  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intArieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blenches  ajouttes 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte. 
mais,  lorsque  cela  Atait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  filmAes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  supplAmentaires; 


L'Institut  a  microfilm*  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'K  lui  a  At*  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sent  peut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique.  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mAthoda  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiqu6s  ci-dessous. 


I      I   Coloured  pages/ 


D 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagtes 


□   Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaurAes  et/ou  pelliculAes 


Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
^  I    Pages  dicolor4es.  tachettes  ou  piquAes 


Pages  detached/ 
Pages  ditachtes 


rri   Showthrough/ 


Transparence 

Quality  of  prin 

Quaiiti  inigale  de  ('impression 

Includes  supplementary  materii 
Comprend  du  materiel  supplAmentaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 


I      I   Quality  of  print  varies/ 

|~~|   Includes  supplementary  material/ 

r~~\   Only  edition  available/ 


Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc..  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totaiement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata.  une  pelure. 
etc.,  ont  6t*  filmies  A  nouveau  de  fapon  A 
obtenir  la  meiiieure  image  possible. 


Th 
to 


pc 
of 
fil 


Of 
bfl 
th 
sk 
ot 
fir 
si( 
or 


Tr 

sh 

Tl 

wl 

M 
dil 

en 
be 
rifl 

re( 
m( 


( 

rhis  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film*  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqui  ci-dessous 

10X                           14X                           18X                           22X 

26X 

30X 

>/ 

12X 

16X 

20X 

24X 

28X 

32X 

-1.^    r»^l»^^ 


Th«  copy  filmed  h«r«  ha*  b—n  r«procluc«d  thanks 
to  the  ganoroaity  of: 

Seminary  of  Quebec 
Library 


L'axamplaira  filmi  f ut  raproduit  grAca  A  la 
gAntroaitA  da: 

Mminaire  de  Quebec 
BibliothAque 


Tha  imagas  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  baat  quality 
poMibIa  considaring  tha  condition  and  lagibility 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  kaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  spacificationa. 


Las  imagas  suivsntas  ont  Ati  raproduitas  avac  la 
plua  grand  soin,  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nattat*  da  I'axarrplaira  film*,  at  an 
conformiti  avac  las  conditions  du  contrat  da 
filmaga. 


Original  nopiaa  in  printad  papar  covara  ara  fllmad 
baginning  with  tha  front  covar  and  anding  on 
tha  last  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  impraa- 
sion,  or  tha  back  covar  whan  appropriata.  All 
othar  original  copias  ara  fiimad  baginning  on  tha 
first  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  impraa- 
sion.  and  anding  on  tha  laat  paga  with  a  printad 
or  illuatratad  impraaaion. 


Tha  laat  racordad  frama  on  aach  microficha 
shall  contain  tha  aymbol  ^^  (moaning  "CON* 
TINUED").  or  tha  aymbol  ▼  (moaning  "END"), 
whichavar  appliaa. 


Laa  axamplairas  originaux  dont  la  couvartura  an 
papiar  aat  imprimia  sont  film6s  an  commandant 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  tarminant  soit  par  la 
darnlAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraaaion  ou  d'illuatration,  soit  par  la  sacond 
plat,  aalon  la  eaa.  Toua  laa  autraa  axamplairas 
originaux  sont  filmte  an  commandant  par  la 
pramiAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraaaion  ou  d'illustration  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  darniira  paga  qui  comporta  una  talla 
amprainta. 

Un  daa  aymboiaa  suivants  apparaltra  sur  la 
darnlAra  imaga  da  chaqua  microficha.  salon  la 
caa:  la  aymbola  ^»>  signifia  "A  SUIVRE".  la 
aymbola  V  aignifia  "FIN". 


Mapa.  platas.  charts,  ate.  may  ba  fiimad  at 
diffarant  raduction  ratioa.  Thoaa  too  larga  to  ba 
antiraly  includad  in  ona  axpoaura  ara  fiimad 
baginning  in  tha  uppar  laft  hand  cornar.  laft  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  aa  many  framaa  aa 
raquirad.  Tha  following  diagrama  illuatrata  tha 
mathod: 


Laa  cartas,  planchaa,  tablaaux.  ate,  pauvant  Atra 
fiimAa  A  daa  taux  da  reduction  diff Grants. 
Loraqua  la  documant  ast  trop  grand  pour  Atra 
raproduit  9n  un  saul  clichA.  11  ast  fiimA  A  partir 
da  I'angla  supAriaur  gaucha.  da  gauche  A  droita. 
at  da  haut  an  baa.  an  pranant  la  nombra 
d'imcgas  nicaasaira.  Las  diagrammas  suivants 
illustrant  la  mAthoda. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

Q^t?rec 


-.J€ 


1)  ' 


THE 


METROPOLITA 


THIRD  RE 

€iixlttU|  «nmgtb«  in  ipiofe 
FOR  THE  USE  OP  S 


Br  A  Member  or  the  Order  of  the  Holy  Croj 
Cum  fttmiluro  JSupirfoxum. 

■  ■'      NEXr   Ay-D    nEVlSED   EDITION. 

NEW   YORK: 
D.   &  J.  SADLIER  a;  CO.,  SI  BARCLAY  6TRE 

.  MONTEBAL  : 
COR.   NOmi  DAXB   AMD  IT.   nUXOU   XATIIR   ITS. 


mm 


linterad  MenrdiiBg  to  Aot  of  CongreM,  in  «he  jear  1871* 

Bj  D.  A  J.  BADLIEB  ft  CO., 

Ib  tht  OIBm  «f  tiM  libiuiu  of  CongreM  at  WMhiaften. 


Bleotro^ped  bjr  VINOXNT  DIIIi, 
26  k  27  Mew  Obunbtn  St*  M.  T. 


ki 


PREFACE 


THIS  series  oiiginaUj  comprised  four  Progressive 
Beaders.  A  Fiftih,  or  Oratorical  Header,  was 
soon  after  added ;  but  as  many  teachers  complained 
that  the  Third  Header  was  too  far  in  advance  of  the 
Second,  an  Intermediate  Header  has  been  prepared, 
and  is  now  published,  to  foUow  after  the  Second. 
The  Third  Header  has  also  been  carefully  revised, 
and,  where  it  was  possible  to  do  so,  shorter  and  more 
simple  words  have  been  substituted  for  larger  and 
more  difficult  ones.  These  changes  will,  it  is  hoped, 
make  the  Metropolitan  series  entirely  complete. 

Having  had  some  experience  in  the  education  of 
youth,  and  having  examined  most  of  the  Headers 
published,  we  noticed  that,  with  the  single  exception 
of  the  Christian  Brothers'  series,  all  the  others  are 
better  adapted  for  pagan  than  Christian  schools. 
They  are  made  expressly  for  mixed  schools,  where 
Protestant  and  Catholic,  Jew  and  pagan,  may  read 
out  of  the  same  book,  without  discovering  that  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  religion  in  the  world. 

!Dr.  Brownson,  in  his  Heview  for  July,  has  so  well 
described  what  Headers  should  and  should  not  be, 
thai  we  will  be  pardoned  for  quoting  him,  aa  he  ex- 


i^ 


6 


PBEFAOE. 


presses  far  more  dearly  than  we  can  what  we  would 
wish  to  say : 

"  Instructions  in  natural  history  or  natural  science, 
as  chemistry,  mineralogy,  geology,  quadrupeds,  birds, 
fishes,  or  bugs,  may  be  ver}'  interesting,  but  they  form 
no  part  of  education,  and  tend  far  more  to  materialize 
the  mind  than  to  elevate  it  to  God,  and  to  store  it 
with  moral  and  religious  principles,  which  may  one 
day  fructify,  and  form  a  character  of  moral  and  true 
religious  worth.  A  book  may  contain  much  useful 
instruction  on  nouns,  adjectives,  verbs,  adverbs,  par- 
ticiples, and  other  parts  of  speech,  very  proper  in  a 
grammar-book,  but  quite  out  of  place  in  a  reading- 
book  ;  but  all  these  lessons  belong  to  the  department 
of  special  instruction,  and  either  have  no  bearing  on 
education  proper,  or  tend  to  give  to  education  a  dry, 
utilitarian,  and  materialistic  character.  .  .  .  The 
aim  of  the  reading-book  is  not  instruction,  save  in  the 
single  art  of  reading,  but  education,  the  development 
or  cultivation  in  the  mind  and  in  the  heart  of  those 
great  principles  which  are  the  basid  of  all  religion.'* 

We  have  endeavored  to  make  these  Headers  as 
attractive  in  every  way  as  any  series  published; 
while  from  a  Catholic  point  of  view,  we  can  con- 
scientiously claim  for  them  some  degree  of  merit. 

The  style  in  which  the  publishers  have  got  up  the 
other  books  of  this  series  is  very  creditable  to  them  ; 
but  in  this  third  book  they  have  surpassed  themselves. 
It  is  embellished  with  numerous  engravings,  many  of 
them  very  fine,  and  far  superior  to  what  is  generally 
seen  in  school-books. 

The  CoustLEB. 


1 


^-Tmmmmsm* 


CONTENTS. 


PART  I. 

PAOB 

iNBTHVonom  ox  TBI  PuKOirau  or  Biasino 11 

1.  Baptism 16 

2.  The  Smile  of  Innocence 18 

8.  Kind  Words 19 

4.  The  Brothers 20 

6.  Beware  of  Impatience 21 

6.  The  Two  Ways 28 

7.  Ckransel  to  the  Toung 25 

8.  On  a  Picture  of  a  Girl  leading  her  Blind  Mother  through  the 

Woods WiUii.  26 

9.  The  Honest  Shepherd  Boy 28 

10.  The  Wonders  of  a  Salt  Mine Touth'a  C.  Magaxim.  82 

11.  The  Starry  Heavens 83 

12.  Carelessness 86 

18.  Congregation  of  the  Propagation  of  the  Faith ,  89 

14.  live  for  Sometliing 42 

16.  Predominant  Passions 48 

16.  ••  ••       (Cbntfmierf) 47 

17.  My  Boy  Absalom N.P.  Wittit  S?. 

18.  The  Scholar's  Virion £  It 

19.  Birth  of  our  Saviour IMy  ufa  Christian.  68 

20.  A  Spanish  Anecdote 61 

21.  Anecdotes  of  Dogs Ifiatural  Hitkry.  62 

22.  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore Wo(f«.  66 

28.  I  Try  to  be  Good , 68 

24.  The  Green  Mossy  Bank 70 

26.  On  the  Baptismal  Vows. Duty  afa  ChrUHan.  71 

26.  The  Litany 78 

27.  Tho  Sign  of  the  Cross 74 

28.  The  Three  Friends 77 

29.  SongoftheBailroad O.W.Holmet.  78 

80.  Tiototinui .,.« 80 


"■rnKmrnm^m 


8  CONTENTS. 

81.  OnarditB  Angeb 82 

82.  TheBMorrectionoftheBodj B\HkHiHory.  84 

88.  A  Storj  of  »  Monk 87 

84.  The  Dilatory  Scholar 89 

86.  Spanish  Evening  Hymn 90 

86.  Christ  stilling  the  Tempest 91 

87.  Holiday  Children 92 


PART  II. 

1.  The  Dream  of  the  Crusader 96 

2.  •'        "         "  ••        (Qmimmi) 97 

8.  The  Lord's  Prayer BiUe  StoriM,    99 

4.  Legend  of  the  Infant  Jesus 101 

6.  The  Do-Nothings 102 

6.  Healing  the  Daughter  of  Jaims.. WVlu.  106 

7.  St  Philip  Neri  and  the  Youth Byron.  108 

8.  Confirmation. 109 

9.  Birds  in  Summer ' 110 

10.  The  Children  and  the  Infant  Jesos 112 

11.  The  Grave  of  Father  Marquette Judge  Kennedy.  117 

12.  Abraham  and  Isaac BMe  Hulory.  120 

18.  Hohenlinden OampbeU.  128 

14.  Language  of  Flbwdrt. Cliflon  l\raeU.  124 

\6.  Homeward  Bbuhd....... ..WHHa.  127 

16.  Lucy's  Death. . . . .....  .       .     a\flon  TnuU.  128 

17.  Autobii^ropliy iCf a Boee.... E.M.€hiihn».  182 

18.  "  »•       (Ow/miierf). "  186 

19.  Winter........ 188 

20.  The  Sno 141 

21.  Uses  of  Watier  ..... . . . . . 148 

Dying  Christiaii  to  his  Soul Pope.  146 

22.  Flight  Into  Efeypt. . ..............  Bible  Stories.  146 

23.  The  Freed  Bird Mrg.  Bamms.  148 

24.  Beheading  of  St.  John.  ...:.::;....:;.....;;  .Bibie  Storia.  160 
26.  Saturday  AftemooA  ... ....... ....... . . . . ..........  WUH$.  162 

26.  Learning  and  Aco6ttplisbments  not  inconsistent  with  €h>od 

Housekeeping.  .......•.■.'................  i; ...........  164 

27.  Leaniinj^  aod  Aooomplishmenti  {Omtimui) . ; . .  i '. « I'l  v  i . ; ; . .  166 


CONTENTS. 


\   . 


28.  Anecdotes  of  the  Tiger Kdmtd  Butary  169 

29.  The  Fountaht 168 

80   Benedict  Arnold 164 

81.  Ruth  and  Noemi Bible  Sioriet.  166 

82.  Flowers 169 

83.  The  Scholar  of  the  Boearj 170 

84.  "        ••  ••         "      (Coniinued^ 172 

86.  The  Month  of  May , 176 

86.  The  Month  of  Mary C.  Youtk't  MagaoM.  177 

87.  The  Indian 178 

88.  Charity OmqAim.  180 

89.  The  Everlasting  Church Maeaday.  181 

40.  Welcome  to  the  Rhine BmOm.  188 

41.  The  Bee-Hive 186 

42.  The  Child's  Wiuh  in  June 187 

48.  The  Martyr's  Boy  .... .' Cardinal  Wimmm.  188 

44.    "         •♦         ••  (Omtinwi) "  ••        198 

46.  Anna's  Offering  of  Samuel BM»  Storiu.  196 

46.  The  Boy  and  the  Child  Jesus Beher.  199 

47.  The  Holy  Eucharist. Bible  Storia.  201 

48.  The  House  of  Loretto S.  M.  Guthrw.  204 

49.  Extreme  Unction. Dvty  tfa  CftruiMn.  207 

60.  "What  is  that,  Mother?" Loom.  209 

61.  Charity Ongkul.  210 

62.  Anecdotes  of  Horses AnecdoU»<f  Animdt.  211 

63.  The  Battle  of  Blenheim SouXhty.  216 

64.  The  Annunciation Biblt  Sioriea.  217 

66.  St.  Felicitas  and  her  Sons Mr$.  Hope.  220 

66.  Immortality 0.  A.  Broumaon.  224 

67.  The  Widow  of  Nain WUK:  226 

68.  Monument  to  a  Mother's  Grave J.  B.  Chandler.  227 

69.  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds Bible  Storia.  280 

60.  The  Angelus  Bell Cangiion.  282 

61.  The  Adoration  of  the  Magi BibU  Storiet.  234 

62.  lona 287 

63.  St.  Columba  blessing  the  Isles MaOcay.  289 

64.  The  Observing  Judge .^. .  241 

66.     "  "  "     {CnOinaed) ....242 

66.  ••  "  ••     (CbnrfudW) ...244 

67.  Henry  the  Hermit ScnUhty.  246 

68.  God  is  Everywhere 249 

69.  Anecdote  of  Frederick  the  Great 260 

70.  A  SmaU  Catechism. McGte.  261 


HMMiP 


to 


OONTBNTS. 


71. 

72. 

78. 

74. 

75. 

76. 

77. 

78. 

79. 

80. 

81. 

82. 

88. 

84. 

86. 

86. 

87. 

88. 

89. 

90. 

91. 

02. 

08. 

04. 

06. 

06. 

07. 

08. 

99. 
100. 
101. 
101. 


The  Pndlgftl  Son BMtSlorim,  262 

BlMichflofCMUle 266 

HaUVifginofViigini Lpra  CMhoUea.  266 

Legend  of  Daniel  the  Anchoret Mr$.  Jawmon.  259 

•♦  "  {Cbntmvud)....  •♦  261 

Childhood's  Tean KirhtWMe  262 

Breakfiut-Table  Science 266 

"  ♦•     {Continued) 268 

"  "      (CbnrfittW) 272 

Tired  of  PUj , Wiitti.  278 

Ifelroae  Abbey Origmd.  279 

Curing  the  Blind ,.  .Lift  i/ Christ  far  Youth.  281 

Country  Fellows  and  the  Ass..... Bpron.  288 

The  Fint  Crusade Mkhtml.  286 

The  BatUe  of  Antioch 288 

Village  Schoolmaster Goldimith  291 

The  Rector  of  Ouignen .Bishop  Barley.  292 

The  Three  Homes 294 

8t.  Peter  delivered  out  of  Prison Youth' »  C.  Magasine.  296 

The  Hermit  ...  GoUtmlth.  298 

Pbpe  Leo  the  Great  and  Attiia .  Bridge' $  Modem  HiMtary.  299 

Childhood  of  Jesus Life  qfChritt  for  Youth.  801 

The  Butterfly's  Ball,  eto .Rmoe.  802 

The  Ascension. .Bith  Storiee.  804 

The  Traveller ......,, .Goldimith.  806 

The Hoorish.Wars in  Spain........ 807 

TlieHmiksofQld.... ...Q.F-  R.  James.  809 

The  Sacred  Pictures. > .  ••B3fU  Storiee.  811 

Truth  in  Parentheses. Bood.  812 

Jiq^ese  Martyrs ....,..,.-... ; Oamee.  818 

Pain  in  a  Pleasure-Boat iibod.  817 

Tkmente  the  Altar.. Cliftoik  Trade.  820 


ft 

ai 

T 

tt 

bi 


I  have  given  the  names  of  some  authors ;  but  in  arranging  this  Reader, 
my  object  was  to  secure  pfeces  suitable  for  ojiildren  who  wete  commencing 
to  read  rather  fluently.  Many  of  them  are  fugitive.  I  sought  rather  te 
malce  it  pleasant  and  instructive,  than  to  cull  from  particular  authors. 


*>'»•  SIKIWIHQnM 


THE  THIRD  R 


•    PART  FIRST. 


nSTRDCnOHS  OS  THE  PBINCIPLES  OF  READIHO. 


\\ 


All  that  articulate  langaage  can  effect  to  inflnence  others, 
is  dependent  npon  the  voice  addressed  to  the  ear.  A  skil- 
fiil  management  of  it  is,  consequently,  of  the  highest  import* 
ance. 

Distinct  articulation  forms  the  foundation  of  good  readhig. 
To  acquire  this,  the  voice  should  be  firequently  exercised  upon 
the  elementary  sounds  of  the  language,  both  simple  and  com- 
bined, and  classes  of  words  containing  sounds  liable  to  be 
perverted  or  suj^ressed  in  utterance,  should  be  forcibly  and 
accurately  pronounced. 


Elbmektart  Yooal  Sounds. 

' 

Vtwd  Samtb, 

as  in  ape. 

0  as  in  old. 

"     arm. 

0     "     do. 

<*^    ball 

io     "     ox. 

"     mat 

a     "     use. 

"     eve. 

u     "     tub. 

"     end. 

tt     "     falL 

"     ic5e. 

oi    "     voice. 

"     it 

on  "     sound. 

12 


TUE  THIBD  'RTBA'nii'.n. 


Oomcnant  Sounds. 


b'*'  as  in  bag. 


r  as  IS  ram. 


d       ' 

'     dun. 

V      " 

vane. 

«       ' 

'     gate. 

V    " 

war. 

J        ' 
1 

'     jam. 
'     love. 

7  " 
z     " 

yes. 
zeal. 

m      * 
n       ' 

'     moment. 
'     not. 

ng  " 
th   " 

song, 
there. 

Aspirate  Sounds. 

The  aspirate  consonant  is  distinguished  from  the  vocal  in 
its  enunciation :  the  former  is  prouounced  with  a  foil  emission 
of  breath ;  the  latter,  by  a  murmuring  sound  of  the  voice. 

Exerciaea  in  the  Aspirate  Consonants. 

f  as  in  fate.  h  as  in  hate.  k  as  in  key. 

p  *  "    phi.  s     "    sign.  t     "    tell, 

ch  "    charm.        sh   "    shade.         th    "    thanks. 


Avoid  the  suppresedon  of  a  syllable ;  as, 

cab'n        for  cabin.  des'late  for  desolate, 

partic^ar  "   particular.  mem'ry   "    memory. 

Avoid  the  omission  of  any  sound  properly  belonging  to  a 
word;  as, 

seem'        for  seeing.  swif  ly    for  swiftly, 

wa'mer.      "  warmer.  *appy       "   happy.  ^ 

government"  government.        b'isness    "   bnisness. 

Avoid  the  substitution  of  one  sound  for  another ;  as, 

wil-ler      forwil-low.  tem-per-it         for  tem-per-ate. 

win-der     "   window.  com-proni>mise  "  com-pro-mise. 

sep-e-rate  "   sep-a-rate.  hol-ler  "  hollow. 

*  The  common  defect  in  the  articulation  of  6,  is  a  want  of  force  in 
compreuing  and  opening  the  mouth. 


ON  THB  PBINOIPLES  OF  BBADINa. 


18 


Emphasis  and  Accent. 

Emphasis  and  Accent  both  indicate  some  special  stress  of 
the  voice.  Emphasis  is  that  stress  of  the  voice  by  which  one 
or  more  words  of  a  sentence  are  distinguished  above  the  rest. 
It  is  used  to  designate  the  important  words  of  a  sentence, 
without  any  direct  reference  to  other  words. — ^Example : 

Be  we  men, 
And  suffer  such  dishonor  ?    Men,  and  wash  not 
The  stain  away  m  blood  ! 

Emphasis  is  also  used  in  contrastmg  one  word  or  clause 
with  anpther ;  as, 

Bdigion  raises  men  above  themselves.  Irreligion  sinks 
them  beneath  brutes. 

To  detenmne  the  emphatic  words  of  a  sentence,  the  reader 
must  be  governed  wholly  by  the  SentimerU  to  be  expressed. 
The  idea  is  sometimes  entertained,  that  emphasis  is  expressed 
by  loudness  of  tone.  But  it  should  be  borne  in  mind  that  the 
most  intense  emphasis  may  often  be  effectively  expressed  even 
by  a  whisper. 

Accent. 

Accent  is  that  stress  of  voice  by  which  one  syllable  of  a 
word  is  made  more  prominent  than  the  others. 

The  accented  syllable  is  sometunes  designated  thus  (') ;  as, 
in'terdict.  Words  of  more  than  two  syllables  generally  have 
two  or  more  of  them  accented.  The  more  forcible  stress  is 
called  the  primary  accent,  and  the  less  forcible  the  secondary 
accent ;  as,  mul'ti  pli  caption,  com'pre  hend". 

Note. — The  change  of  accent  on  the  same  word  often 
changes  its  meaning ;  as 


11 


ob'ject,  ultimate  pm'pose. 
con'duct,  behavior. 


object',  to  oppose, 
con  duct',  to  lead. 


IMaWft  I  WnftWaOi^fcM 


14 


THE  THIBD  BEAPEB. 


Inflechons  or  Modulations 

are  those  variations  of  the  voice  heard  in  speaking  or  reading, 
which  are  prompted  by  the  feelings  and  emotions  that  the  sub- 
ject inspires.  A  correct  modulation  of  the  voice  is  one  of  the 
most  important  things  to  be  taught  to  children.  Without  it 
they  cannot  become  good  readers.  If  the  voice  is  kept  for 
any  length  of  time  in  one  continuous  key  or  pitch,  the  reader 
and  the  hearers  equally  become  weary.  Whenever  a  habit  of 
reading  or  speaking  in  a  nasal,  shrill,  harsh,  or  rough  tone 
of  voice  is  contracted  by  the  pupil,  no  pains  should  be  spared 
in  eradicating  it,  and  in  securing  a  clear,  full,  round,  and  flex- 
ible tone.  Three  degrees  of  variations  are  usually  recognized 
in  reading — the  high,  middle,  and  low. 
,  The  low  is  that  which  falls  below  the  usual  speaking  key, 
and  is  employed  in  expressing  ^motions  of  sublimity,  awe,  and 
reverence. 

The  middle  pitch  is  what  is  usually  employed  in  common 
conversation,  and  in  expressing  unimpassioned  thought,  and 
moderate  emotion. 

The  liigh  pitch  is  that  which  rises  above  the  usual  speaking 
key,  and  is  used  in  expressing  jot/ous  and  elevated  feelings. 

The  great  object  of  every  reader  should  be,  first,  to  read  so 
as  to  be  fully  and  easily  understood  by  all  who  hear  him ;  and 
next,  to  read  with  grace  and  force,  so  as  to  please  and  move 
his  hearers. 


i.. 


BAPTISM. 


15 


.    J^i^iarf'.^itlliii.fenvJiR  nr?:)  IT::;  %.>  vjiP^m'SP.  fc. 


■  .ir-"«i,!:Ml  iDia^:. 


1.   Baptism. 


O-rig'i-nal,  first,  primitiye. 
Mar'tyr-dom,  death  in  testi- 
mony of  the  true  faith. 


Sup-Fi'ci-ENT,  enough. 
Va-lid'mY)  legal  force. 
Reg'is-ter-ed,  recorded. 


Oar  Savioar  baptised  by  St.  John. 


THE  first  of  the  Sacraments  which  we  receive  is  baptism. 
It  was  instituted  by  our  Lord  to  firee  us  from  original  sm, 
and  also  from  actual  sin  committed  before  we  receiye  it.  Bap- 
tiim  makes  us  children  of  God  and  of  his  holy  Church ;  and 


II 


" .% 


.s' 


^\fy^.. 


16 


THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 


it  is  the  most  necessary  of  all  the  Sacraments,  because,  unless 
we  receive  it,  we  cannot  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

2.  There  are  conmionly  reckoned  three  kinds  of  baptism : 
first,  by  water ;  second,  that  of  the  spirit ;  and  third,  of  blood. 
The  first  only  is  properly  a  sacrament,  and  it  is  conferred 
by  pouring  water  on  the  head  of  the  person  to  be  baptized, 
repeating  at  the  same  time  these  words :  "  I  baptize  thee  in 
the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy 
Ghost." 

3.  The  baptism  of  the  spirit  takes  place  when  a  person  has 
a  true  sorrow  for  his  sins,  and  an  ardent  desire  to  receive  bap- 
tism, but  is  placed  in  such  a  position  that  it  is  impossible  for 
him  to  receive  the  sacrament.  By  this  desire  origmal  and 
actual  sin  is  for^ven.  The  baptism  of  blood  is  that  which 
takes  place  when  a  person  suffers  martyrdom  for  the  faith. 
Hence  the  Holy  Innocents,  put  to  death  by  the  order  of 
Herod,  when  that  wicked  king  sought  to  kill  our  Lord,  wre 
esteemed  as  martyrs,  and  as  being  baptized  in  their  blood. 

4.  At  what  particular  time  during  the  life  of  our  divine 
Lord  baptism  was  instituted  is  not  exactly  known.  Some 
holy  Fathers  think  it  was  instituted  when  Christ  was  baptized 
by  St.  John ;  others,  when  He  said,  unless  a  man  be  bom  of 
water  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  he  cannot  enter  the  kingdom,  of 
heaven.  It  is  certain,  however,  that  the  obligation  b^^n 
with  the  beginning  of  Christianity. 

5.  Baptism  is  conferred  in  three  ways.  First,  by  immer* 
sion,  that  is,  by  plunging  the  person  under  the  water.  Sec- 
ondly, by  infusion,  or  pouring  the  water  on  the  person  to  be 
baptized ;  and  thirdly,  by  aspersion  or  sprinkling^.  The  prac- 
tice now  is,  to  pour  the  water  three  times  on  the  person  about 
to  be  baptized,  using  the  words,  "I  baptize  thee,  ^c.,"  which 
we  mentioned  before.  The  pouring  of  the  water  once  is  suffi- 
cient, as  to  making  the  sacrament  valid ;  and  it  is  not  actually 
necessary  to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  while  pouring  the 
water,  though  it  is  usually  dpne. 

6.  The  ceremonies  made  use  of  in  conferring  the  sacra* 
ment  of  baptism  are  impressive  and  instructive.  The  priest 
breathes  upon  the  infant  or  other  person  to  be  baptized,  to 


iP'"*!!!PP*i>9iiii 


BAPTISM. 


17 


ri^fy  spiritual  life.  It  is  used  also  to  drive  cTra.y  the  devil, 
by  the  Holy  Ghost,  who  is  called  the  Spirit  of  God.  The 
person  is  signed  with  the  sign  of  the  cross,  to  signify  that  he 
is  made  a  soldier  of  Christ.  Salt  is  pnt  into  his  mouth,  which 
is  an  emblem  of  prudence,  and  signifies  that  grace  is  given  to 
preserve  the  soul  incorrupt. 

7.  The  priest  applies  spittle  to  the  person's  ears  and  nostrils, 
in  imitation  of  Christ,  who  used  that  ceremony  in  curing  the 
deaf  and  dumb.  The  anointing  the  head  denotes  the  dignity 
of  Christianity ;  the  anointing  the  shoulders,  that  he  may  be 
strengthened  to  carry  his  cross ;  the  breast,  that  lus  heart 
may  concur  willingly  in  all  the  duties  of  a  Christian ;  the 
white  garment  in  which  the  person  is  clothed  signifies  inno- 
cence ;  and  the  lighted  candle  the  light  of  faith  with  which  he 
is  endowed. 

8.  When  children  are  baptized,  they  have  also  a  godfather 
and  godmother,  whose  duty  it  is  to  instruct  the  child  in  the 
duties  of  its  religion,  in  case  of  the  death  or  neglect  of 
parents  to  do  it.  The  office  of  godfather  or  godmcth3r  is  an 
important  one,  and  should  not  be  undertaken  Without  due  con- 
sideration of  its  duties. 

9.  At  baptism,  the  devil  and  all  his  works  are  solemnly  re- 
nounced ;  a  promise  is  recorded  on  the  altar  to  bear  the  white 
robe  of  innocence  without  stain  of  sin  before  the  throne  of 
God.    Children,  have  you  kept  this  promise  f 


hi 


18 


THE  THIRD  REAPER. 


2.    The  Smile  of  Innocence. 


Tran'sient,  passing,  fleeting. 
Ma'ni-ac,  a  madman. 
Pen'sive,  thoughtful. 
Plac'id,  quiet. 
En-rol',  to  register. 


Me'te-or,  a  luminous,  tran- 
sient  body,  floating  in  the 
atmosphere. 

In'no-cbnce,  freedom  from 
guilt. 


1.  rpHERE  is  a  smile  of  bitter  scorn, 

J-  Which  curls  the  lip,  which  lights  the  eye ; 
There  is  a  smile  in  beauty's  mom 
Just  rising  o'er  the  midnight  sky. 

2.  There  is  a  smile  of  youthfiil  joy, 

When  hope's  bright  star's  the  transient  guest ; 
There  is  a  smile  of  placid  age. 
Like  sunset  on  the  billow's  breast. 


S.  There  is  a  smile,  the  maniac's  smile. 

Which  lights  the  void  that  reason  leaves, 
And,  like  the  sunshine  through  a  cloud. 
Throws  shadows  o'er  the  song  she  weaves. 


"    fl 


[%**^—  •  -i.r-"fc''i'iWiW   l-''-ini,T.--f    ' 


i^\__. 


iwiww|ippiaipg|pg»ww»!iwwpw«wwip.*i  J.  jiiiiiwpmwy 


KBXD  WOBDS. 

4.  There  is  a  smile  of  love,  of  hope, 

Which  shines  a  meteor  throngh  life's  gloom ; 
And  there's  a  smile,  Religion's  smile, 
Which  lights  the  weary  to  the  tomb. 

6.  It  is  the  smile  of  innocence. 

Of  sleeping  infancy's  light  dream ; 
Like  lightning  on  a  summer's  eve, 
It  sheds  a  soft,  a  pensive  gleanL 

6.  It  dances  round  the  dimpled  cheek, 
And  tells  of  happiness  within ; 
It  smiles  what  it  can  never  speak — 
A  human  heart  devoid  of  sin. 


19 


1 


»^ 


3.    Kind  Words. 

Men'tal,  relating  to  the  mind.  I   Wrath'ful,  furious,  raging. 
Mo-bose',  sour  of  temper.        I   XJN-PLEAs'Airr,  offensive. 

Do  not  say  tnent'l  for  tnentcH;  'compLuh  or  uooon^Uh  for  accomjiith 
tuitolve  for  retclve  ;  perduet  fox  produce. 


THEY  never  blister  the  tongue  or  lips.    And  we  have  never 
heard  of  one  mental  trouble  arising  from  this  quarter. 
Though  they  do  not  cost  mutih,  yet  they  accomplish  mack 


90 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


They'  help  one's  own  good-natnre  and  good*wiII.  Soft  words 
soften  our  own  Ronls.  Angry  words  are  fuel  to  the  flame  of 
wrath,  and  make  the  blaze  more  fierce. 

2.  Kind  words  make  other  people  good-natured.  Gold 
words  freeze  people,  and  hot  words  make  them  hot,  and  bitter 
words  make  them  bitter,  and  wrathful  words  make  them 
wrathful.  There  is  such  a  rush  of  all  other  kinds  of  words  in 
our  days,  that  it  seems  unpleasant  to  give  kind  words  a  chance 
among  them. 

3.  There  are  Tain  words,  and  idle  words,  and  hastj  words, 
spiteful  words,  and  empty  words,  and  profane  words,  and  war- 
like words.  Kind  words  also  produce  their  own  image  in 
man's  soul.    And  a  beautiful  image  it  is.  - 

4.  They  soothe,  and  quiet,  and  comfort  the  hearer.  They 
shame  him  out  of  his  sour,  morose,  unkind  feelings.  If  we 
have  not  yet  begun  to  nse  kind  words  in  abundance  as  thex 
ought  to  be  used,  we  should  resolve  to  do  so  immediately. 


4    The  Bbothebs. 


Sa'cred,  holy. 


TJn-troub'led,  not  troubled. 


Sound  e  correctly.    Do  not  akj  mtmd  for  tucred;  war*  for  wtr*. 
Avoid  a  singing  tone  in  reading  poetry. 

1.  TIT^B  ARE  BUT  TWO — ^thc  othcTs  sleep 
*  *    Through  death's  untroubled  night : 
We  are  but  two — oh,  let  us  keep 
The  link  that  binds  us  bright. 


2.  Heart  leaps  to  heart — ^the  sacred  flood 
That  warms  us  is  the  same ; 
That  good  old  man — ^his  honest  blood 
Alike  WB  ftMsdly  daun. 


_u_ 


'■■■■iW 


IpRp 


mmm 


BEWABE  OF  DIPATIENOB. 

&  We  in  one  mother^s  anns  were  lock'd — 
Long  be  her  loye  repaid ; 
In  the  same  cradle  we  were  roclc'd, 
Bound  the  same  hearth  we  played. 


ai 


4.  Oar  boyish  sports  were  all  the  same, 
Each  little  joy  and  woe : 
Let  manhood  keep  aUve  the  flame/ 
Lit  up  so  long  ago. 

6.  Wb  are  but  two — ^be  that  the  band 
To  hold  ns  till  we  die ; 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  let  us  stand, 
Till  side  by  side  we  lie. 


6.  Bewabe  of  Impatienoe. 


De-li'cious,  excellent  to  the 

taste. 
Mis'e-bt,  wretchedness ;  woe. 
Anx'ious,   with   trouble   of 

mind. 
iM'PORr'ANCE,  consequence. 


Ad-vised',  to  have  given  ad- 
vice. 

Plunged,  thrust  in. 

6e-ware',  to  take  care. 

Poi'soN,  what  is  noxious  to  life 
or  health. 


■iMlk 


¥f 


S3 


THE  THIBD  READEB. 


'i 

.i 

i 

•I 

:'  1 


^  rpHERE'S  many  a  pleasure  in  life  which  we  might  possess, 
-1-  were  it  not  for  our  impatience.  Young  people,  especially, 
miss  a  great  deal  of  happiness,  because  they  cannot  wait  till 
the  proper  time. 

2.  A  man  once  gave  a  fine  pear  to  his  little  boy,  saying  to 
him,  "The  pear  is  green  now,  my  boy,  but  lay  it  by  for  a  week, 
and  it  will  then  be  ripe,  and  very  delicious." 

"But,"  said  the  child,  "I  want  to  eat  it  now,  father." 
"  I  tell  you  it  is  not  ripe  yet,"  said  the  father.     "  It  will 
not  taste  good ;  and,  besides,  it  will  make  you  sick."  -^^ 

3.  "  No,  it  won't,  father ;  I  know  it  won't,  it  looks  so  good. 
Do  let  me  eat  it  1 " 

After  a  little  more  teasing,  the  father  consented,  and  the 
child  ate  the  pear.  The  consequence  was,  that  the  next  day 
he  was  taken  sick,  and  came  very  near  dying.  Now,  all  this 
happened  because  the  child  was  impatient. 

4.  He  could  not  wait,  and  so,  yon  see,  the  pear,  that  might 
have  been  very  pleasant  and  harmless,  was  the  occasion  of 
severe  illaess.  Thus  it  is  that  impatience,  in  a  thousand  hi- 
stances,  leads  children,  and  pretty  old  ones  too,  to  convert 
sources  of  happiness  into  actual  mischief  and  misery. 

5.  There  were  some  boys  once,  who  lived  near  a  pond ;  and 
when  winter  came,  they  were  very  anxious  to  have  it  freeze 
over,  so  that  they  could  slide  and  skate  upon  the  ice.  At 
last,  there  came  a  very  cold  night,  and  in  the  morning  the. 


•mn 


'•f^mm^Ktm 


V 


i! 


THB  TWO  WAYS. 


2a 


boys  went  to  the  pond  to  see  if  the  ice  woald  bear  them. 
Their  father  came  by  at  that  moment,  and  seeing  tliat  it  was 
hardly  thick  enough,  told  the  boys  that  it  was  not  safe  yet, 
and  advised  them  to  wait  another  day  before  they  ventured 
upon  it. 

6.  But  the  boys  were  in  a  gpreat  hurry  to  enjoy  the  pleasure 
of  sliding  and  skating.  So  they  walked  out  upon  the  ice  ;  but 
pretty  soon-  it  went  crack — crack — crack  1  and  down  they 
were  all  plunged  into  the  water !  It  was  not  very  deep,  so 
they  got  out,  though  they  were  very  wet,  and  came  near 
drowning ;  and  all  because  they  could  not  wait. 

*l.  Now  these  things,  though  they  may  seem  to  be  trifles, 
are  full  of  instruction.  They  teach  us  to  beware  of  unpatience, 
to  wait  till  the  fruit  is  ripe ;  they  teach  us  that  the  cup  of 
pleasure,  seized  before  the  proper  time,  is  turned  into  poison. 
They  show  us  the  importance  of  patience. 


6.  The  Two  Ways. 


Rhine,  the  principal  river  in 
Germany. 

Gon'science,  internal  or  self- 
knowledge. 

Calm'ness,  quietness. 

Mourned,  sorrowed. 


Raven,  a  species  of  black 
bird. 

Rust'ling,  slight  noise. 

Mis'e-by,  wretchedness. 

Par'a-ble,  a  fable;  a  simili- 
tude. 


IN  a  village  on  the  Rhine,  a  schoolmaster  was  one  day 
teaching  in  his  school,  and  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the 
villagers  sa£  around  listening  with  pleasure,  for  his  teaching 
was  full  of  interest.'  He  was  speaking  of  the  good  and  bad 
conscience,  and  of  the  still  voice  of  the  heart. 

2.  After  he  had  finished  speaking,  he  asked  his  pupils: 
''Who  among  you  is  able  to  tell  me  a  parable  on  this  sub- 
ject ?"  One  of  the  boys  stood  forth  and  said,  "  I  think  I  can 
tell  a  partible,  but  I  do  not  know  whether  it  be  right." 

"Speak  in  your  own  words,''  answered  the  master.  And 
the  boy  began:  "I  compare  the  calmness  of  a  good  con* 


I  I    ■mm    i 


_i         ■     '■-•  •     ..^. '.-  I.— -kH.iiiX.ii^-Mta::' 


94 


THB  THIBD  BBADEB. 


Bcience  and  the  nnhappiness  of  an  evil  one,  to  two  ways  on 
which  I  walked  once. 

8.  "  When  the  enemy  passed  through  onr  village,  the  soldiers 
carried  off  by  force  my  dear  father  and  our  horse.  /When  my 
father  did  not  come  back,  my  mother  and  all  of  us  wept  and 
mourned  bitterly,  and  she  sent  me  to  the  town  to  inquire  for 
my  father.  I  went ;  but  late  at  night  I  came  back  sorrow- 
fully, for  I  had  not  found  my  father.  It  was  a  dark  night  in 
autumn. 

4.  "The  wind  roared  and  howled  in  the  oaks  and  firs,  and 
betw^n  the  rocks ;  the  night-ravens  and  owls  were  shrieking 
and  hooting ;  and  I  thought  in  my  soul  how  we  had  lost  my 
father,  and  of  the  misery  of  my  niother  when  she  should^  see 
me  return  alone,  A  strange  trembling  seized  me  in  the  di^ary 
night,  and  each  rustling  leaf  terrified  me.  Then  I  thought  to 
myself, — such  must  be  the  feelings  of  a  man's  heart  who  has 
a  bad  conscience." 

5.  "  My  children,**  said  the  master,  "would  yon  like  to  walk 
in  the  darkness  of  night,  seeking  in  vain  for  your  dear  father, 
and  hearing  naught  but  the  roar  of  the  storm,  and  the  screams 
of  the  beasts  of  prey  ?" 

6.  "Oh  I  no,**  exclaimed  all  the  children,  shuddering. 
Then  the  boy  resumed  his  tale  and  said,  "  Another  time  I 

went  the  same  way  with  my  sister ;  we  had  been  fetching 
many  nice  things  firom  town  for  a  feast,  which  onr  father  was 
secretly  preparing  for  our  mother,  to  surprise  her  the  next 
day. 

7.  "It  wn  late  when  we  returned ;  but  it  was  in  spring; 
the  sky  was  bright  and  clear,  and  all  was  so  calm,  that  we 
could  hear  the  gentle  murmur  of  the  rivulet  by  the  way,  and 
on  all  sides  the  nightmgales  were  singing.  I  was  walkm^- 
hand  in  hand  with  iiiy  sister ;  but  we  were  so  delighted  th:'t 
we  hardly  liked  to  speak  ;  then  onr  good  father  came  to  mt:eo 
us.  Now  I  thoucrht  again  by  myself, — such  must  be  the  state 
of  the  man  w!:iO  hi>^  done  much  good." 

8.  When  the  ?K>y  had  finished  his  tale,  the  master  looked 
kindly  at  the  ch'jdroi^,  aad  they  all  said  together,  "Yes,  we 
will  become  good  man  I " 


I 


\y 


'X. 


OOUmOEL  TO  THE  TOVAti. 


26 


7.    COUNSEI.  TO  TUE   ToXJNG. 


Web,  net'work. 
Trou'ble,  care. 
Chber'fdl,  pleasant. 
HAr'rr,  impetaons;  with  ea- 

(TPT-ness. 
Moui  jr,  to  grieve. 


Bud'ble,  a  small  bMder  of 
water. 

Tri'fle,  a  il  ^ter  of  no  im- 
portance. 

Re-vengb',  returning  evil  for 
evil. 


IVrEYER  be  cast  down  by  trifles.  If  a  spider  breaks  his 
•*• '  web  twenty  times,  twenty  times  will  he  mend  it.  Make 
up  your  minds  to  do  a  thing,  and  you  will  do  it.  Fear  not  if 
trouble  comes  upon  yon;  keep  up  your  spirits,  though  the 
day  may  be  a  dark  one — 

Troubles  do  not  last  forever, 
The  darkest  day  will  pass  away. 

2.  If  the  sun  is  going  down,  look  up  to  the  sturs ;  if  the 
earth  w  dark,  keep  your  eyes  on  heaven.  With  God's  prea* 
ence  and  UocTs  [promise,  a  man  or  child  may  be  cheerful. 

Never  despair  when  fog's  in  the  air, 
▲  ■unshiny  MMiming  wUl  come  without  waming. 

4 


I    »^tlM^  ilf»|-|i 


mtitimtmTm'  m<  i 


«ii£iai*'1 


26 


THE  THIBD  HEADER. 


3.  Mind  what^  you  run  after  I  Never  be  content  with  a 
bubble  that  will  Ijurst ;  or  a  fire  that  will  end  in  smoke  and 
darkness :  but  that  which  you  can  keep,  and  which  is  worth 
keeping. 

Something  sterling  that  will  stay, 
When  gold  and  silver  fly  away. 

4.  Fight  hard  against  a  hasty  temper.  Anger  will  come, 
but  resist  it  strongly.  A  spark  may  set  a  house  on  fire.  A 
fit  of  passion  may  give  you  cause  to  mourn  all  the  days  of 
your  hfe.    Never  revenge  an  injury. 

He  that  revenges  knows  no  rest ; 
The  meek  possess  a  peaceful  breast.     ■ 

5.  If  yon  have  an  enemy,  act  kindly  to  him,  and  make  hun 

your  friend.     You  may  not  win  him  over  at  once,  but  try 

again.    Let  one  kmdness  be  followed  by  another  till  you  have 

compassed  your  end.    By  little  and  little  great  tMngs  are 

completed. 

"Water  falling  day  by  day, 
Wears  the  hardest  rock  away. 

^     And  so  repeated  kindness  will  soften  a  heart  of  stone. 


8.  On  a  Picture  of  a  Girl  leading  her  Blind 
Mother  through  the  Wood. 

1.  rriHE  green  leaves  as  we  pass 

-L   Lay  their  light  fingers  on  thee  unaware. 
And  by  thy  side  the  hazels  cluster  fah*, 

And  the  low  forest-grass 
Grows  green  and  silken  where  the  wood-paths  wind — 
Alas  1  for  thee,  sweet  mother  !  thou  art  blmd  I 

2.  And  nature  is  all  bright ; 

And  the  faint  gray  and  crimson  of  the  dawn, 
Like  folded  curtains  from  the  day  are  drawn ; 
And  evening's  purple  light 


OntL  LEADING  HEB  BLIND  MOTHEB. 

Quivers  in  tremulous  softness  on  the  sky — 
Alas  I  sweet  mother  !  for  thy  clouded  eye; 


27 


8.      Tlie  moon's  new  silver  shell 

Trembles  above  thee,  and  the  stars  float  up, 
In  the  blue  air,  and  the  rich  tulip's  cup 

Is  pencil'd  passing  well. 
And  the  swift  birds  on  glorious  pinions  Hee — 
Alas  1  sweet  mother  !  that  thou  canst  not  see  I 


4.       And  the  kind  looks  of  friends 
Peruse  the  sad  expression  in  thy  face. 
And  the  child  stops  amid  his  bounding  race, 
And  the  tall  stripling  bends 


::;:s^ 


^ss^zzJSifir, 


28 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


Low  to  thine  ear  with  duty  nnforgot — 

Alas  !  sweet  mother  I  that  thou  seest  them  not  I 


t 

; 


5.  But  thou  canst  hear!  and  love 
May  richly  on  a  human  tone  be  pour'd, 
And  the  least  cadence  of  a  whisper'd  word 

A  daughter's  love  may  prove — 
And  while  I  speak  thou  knowest  if  I  smile, 
Albeit  thou  canst  not  see  my  face  the  while  I 

6.  Yes,  thou  canst  hear  1  and  He 

Who  on  thy  sightless  eye  its  darkness  hung, 
To  the  attentive  ear,  like  harps,  hath  strung 

Heaven  and  earth  and  sea  ! 
And  'tis  a  lesson  in  our  hearts  to  know — 
WUh  but  one  sense  the  soul  may  overflow. 


9.   T?HE  Honest  Shephebd  BoT. 


Shep'herd,  one  who  has  the 

care  of  sheep. 
Fru'gal,  saving  of  expenses. 
Crook,  bend,  a  shepherd's  staflF. 
Gaif,  manner  of  walking. 


Jomi-NEY's  END,  place  to  lie 
reached! 

De-pict'ed,  portrayed. 

Ca-pac'i-ty,  the  power  of  re- 
ceiving and  containing. 


I  AM  going  to  tell  you  something  which  happened  in  Eng* 
land.  It  is  about  a  shepherd  boy,  named  John  Borrow. 
It  was  a  cold,  wintry  morning  when  John  left  his  home,  as 
usual,  to  tend  the  sheep  of  farmer  Jones.  In  one  hand  John 
carried  his  frugal  meal,  and  in  the  other  he  held  a  shepherd's 
crook.  He  walked  briskly  along,  whistling  as  lie  went — now 
tossing  with  his  feet  the  still  untrodden  snow,  and,  once  in  a 
while,  running  back  to  slide  where  his  own  feet  had  made  a 
way.  Had  you  looked  into  the  bright,  sunny  face  of  John 
Borrow,  you  would  not  have  been  sutprised  at  his  cheerful 


i 


jA^ 


THE  HONEST  SHEPHERD  BOY. 


29 


gait.    His  countenance  bore  the  impress  of  a  happy  disposi- 
tion, and  a  warm,  confiding  heart. 

2.  John  had  been  carefully  brought  up  by  his  only  surviv- 
ing parent — a  poor  mother ;  he  was  her  only  son,  and  though 
she  had  many  little  daughters  to  share  her  maternal  care,  still 
she  seemed  to  think  that  her  first-bom,  the  one  who  was  to 
be  the  stay  and  support  of  the  family,  needed  thje  most  of  her 
watchful  love. 

3.  Hitherto  John  had  not  disappointed  her — ^he  was  beloved 
by  all  for  hi^  open,  firank  manners,  and  his  generous,  honest 
heart;  and  he  promised  fair  to  become  all  that  his  mother 
had  so  earnestly  prayed  he  might  be. 


D  be 


'WSf9m^ 


^■>r^^:v 


f  re- 


Eng* 
rrow. 
le,  as 
John 
lerd's 
-now 
3  in  a 
ide  a 
John 
eerful 


r 


4.  But  while  I  have  been  telling  you  a  little  about  our  young 
friend,  he,  in  spite  of  his  playing  a  little  by  the  way,  has 
reached  his  journey's  end.  He  first  deposits  his  dinner  in  the 
trunk  of  an  old  oak,  which  always  serves  hun  for  a  closet ; 
and  then  he  begins  to  feed  the  poor  sheep,  who  do  not  seem  to 
enjoy  the  cold  weather  so  much  as  himself. 

5.  John  manages  *to  spend  a  very  happy  day  alone  in  the 
meadows  with  his  sheep  and  his  dog.  Sometimes  he  tries  how 
Pepper  likes  snow-balling ;  sometimes  he  runs  up  to  the  wind- 
mill, not  far  off,  to  see  if  he  can  get  any  other  little  boys  to 
come  and  play  with  him.  This  momiiig,  however,  he  had  a 
little  more  business  to  do  than  usual ;  he  had  to  take  the  sheep 
to  another  fold,  where  they  would  be  more  sheltered  from  the 


ii'iliii  11  I  TT^  mu 


80 


THE  TmBD  BEADEB. 


ifittd.  And  jast  as  be  is  in  the  act  of  driving  them  throngh 
the  large  field-gate,  he  sees  farmer  Jones  coming  towards  him. 

6.  "John,"  exclaimed  the  farmer,  as  he  came  up  to  the 
other  side  of  the  gate,  "have  you  seen  my  pocket-book  about 
anywhere  ?  I  was  round  here  about  half  an  hour  ago,  and 
must  have  dropped  it." 

"  No,  sir ;  I  have  not  seen  any  thing  of  it,  but  I'll  look 
about,  if  you  like." 

i.  "  That's  a  man,  John.  Be  quick,  for  it's  got  money  in 
it,  and  I  don't  at  all  wish  to  lose  it.     We  will  hunt  together." 

Whereupon  they  parted  company,  one  going  one  way,  and 
the  other  another,  with  their  eyes  on  the  ground,  searching  for 
the  missing  treasure. 

Presently  John  heard  Mr.  Jones  calling  him  in  a  loud  voice 
from  the  other  side  of  the  field. 

8.  John,  thinking  the  book  was  found,  came  running  with 
great  eagerness ;  but,  as  he  drew  near  the  old  oak  where  farmer 
Jones  stood,  he  was  taken  somewhat  aback  to  see  the  look  of 
anger  depicted  on  his  master's  face ;  and  still  more  was  he 
surprised  when  he  saw  the  missing  book  lying  open  by  the 
side  of  his  own  dinner,  and  Mr.  Jones  pointing  to  it. 

"Well,  sir,  what  does  this  mean?"  exclauned  the  indignant 
farmer.  "  I  thought  yoa  told  me  you  did  not  know  where  it 
was?" 

9.  John,  whose  amazement  at  the  strange  circumstance  was 
very  great,  and  whose  sense  of  honor  was  no  less  so,  felt  the 
color  mount  to  his  cheeks,  as  he  replied  : 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  I  spoke  the  truth." 

"  Then,  how  do  you  account  for  my  findmg  it  open  in  the 
trunk  of  an  oak,  close  to  your  dinner?" 

"  That  I  cannot  say ;  this,  only,  I  know :  that  I  did  not  put 
it  there." 

10.  But  Mr.  Jones  would  not  be  convinced — ^the  fact  seemed 
to  him  so  clear  and  so  self-evident ;  for  John  acknowledged  he 
had  not  seen  any  one  else  about  there  that  morning  ;  so,  after 
scolding  the  poor  boy  ver;*  severely,  he  dismissed  him  on  the 
spot  from  his  employment. 

11.  It  is  easier  to  imagine  than  describe  the  feelings  of  poor 


•  ] 


i 


THE  HONEST  8HEPHEBD  BOY. 


81 


John,  as  he  slowly  fonnd  his  way  home  that  evening.  To  be 
deprived  of  the  means  of  assisting  his  dear  mother  was  bad 
enough ;  bnt  to  be  suspected  of  lying  and  stealing,  was,  to 
simple,  honest  John,  almost  too  hard  to  bear.  He  consoled 
himself,  however,  with  the  thought — "Mother  will  believe 
me." 

12.  Yes,  and  Ms  mother  did  believe  him,  and  told  hun  not 
to  foel  angry  with  farmer  Jones,  for  appearances  were  certainly 
against  him,  and  he  did  not  know  him  as  well  as  she  did. 
"Besides,"  she  added,  "truth  must  come  out  some  time  or 
other." 

,  And  so  it  did,  though  it  was  months  afterwards ;  and  I  will 
tell  you  how. 

13.  John  had  long  been  seeking  another  situation,  but  no 
one  would  take  him,  on  account  of  the  apparent  blot  on  his 
character.  This  cost  John  many  a  tear  and  tiaany  a  sigh,  but 
he  trusted  that  Qod  would  right  him,  and  he  was  not  discour- 
aged. 

14.  One  day  he  went  to  see  a  gentleman  who  had  inquired 
for  a  lad  to  work  in  his  garden.  As  usual,  John  told  his  story 
just  as  it  was,  and  his  face  brightened  as  the  gentleman  said, 
"  Then  that  must  have  been  your  dog  I  saw  with  a  book  in 
his  mouth.  I  was  riding  through  the  field  you  mention,  one 
day,  some  months  since,  and  I  saw  a  dog  with  a  book  in  hi? 
mouth,  run  and  put  his  head  in  the  trunk  of  an  old  oak." 

15.  John  claimed  his  hands  for  joy,  exclaimmg:  "I  knew 
the  truth  would  come  out.  Then  Pepper — poor  Pepper !  it 
was  his  kindness  to  me  that  caused  all  the  trouble ;  he  thought 
it  was  mine,  and  he  took  it  to  where  I  always  keep  my  dinner, 
and  then,  I  suppose,  in  dropping  it  into  the  hole,  it  came 
open." 

16.  John  lost  no  time  in  acquainting  farmer  Jones  with 
what  he  had  heard.  He  was  very  sorry  for  his  suspicions,  and 
wanted  to  take  him  back  ;  but  John,  who  saw  some  chance  of 
promotion  in  the  gentleman's  garden,  declined  the  favor. 

n.  John  remained  some  time  with  his  new  master  as  gar- 
den-boy, but  he  became  so  great  a  favorite,  both  among  the 
family  and  servants,  that  he  was  afterwards  taken  into  the 


82 


THit  THIBD  ftiBA'men- 


honse,  where  he  remained  as  the  trusted  and  yalned  senrant 
of  his  kind  master,  until  his  death.  He  never  married— in 
order  that  he  might  be  better  able  to  su^^rt  his  widowed 
mother  and  his  four  sisters. 

See,  my  dear  children,  how  true  it  is,  that  all  thmgs  work' 
together  for  good  to  those  who  love  God.  '   "^ 


10.   The  WoKDEfta  of  a  Salt  Mine. 


Mine,  a  pit  fi*om*which  min- 
erals are  dug. 

Ca'ble,  a  large,  strong  rope. 

Mi'ner,  one  who.  works-  in  a 
mine. 

Gav'ern,  an  opening  under 
ground. 


Vault,  a  continiied  arch,  a 

cellar. 
I'ci-CLES,  a  hanging  mass  of 

ice. 
iN-HAfi'iT-ANT,  a  pcrsou  who 

resides  in  a  place.  , 

Com'posed,  formed. 


IN  a-  country  of  Europe,  called  Poland,  there  is  the  largest 
salt  mine  in  the^  world.  It  is  quite  a  little  town,  into 
which  there  are  eight  openings,  six  in  the  fields,  and  two  in  a 
town  called  Cracow,  near  which  the  mine  is  situated.  At  the 
top  of  each  of  these  openings  is  a  large  wheel  with  a  cable,  by 
which  persons  are  let  down,  and  sometimes  as  many  as  forty 
persons  descend  together.  They  are  carried  slowly  down  a 
narrow,  dark  well,  to  the  depth  of  600  feet,  and  as  soon  as 
tho  first  person  touches  the  ground,  he  steps  from  the  rope, 
and  the  rest  do  the  same  in  turn. 

2.  The  place  where  they  land  is  quite  dark,  but  the  miners 
strike  a  light,  by  means  of  which  strangers  are  led  through  a 
number  of  winding  ways,  all  sloping  lower  and  lower,  till  they 
come  to  some  ladders,  by  which  they  descend  again  to  an  im- 
mense depth. 

3.  At  the  bottom  of  the  ladders  the  Visitors  enter  a  small, 
dark  cavern,  apparently  walled  up  on  all  sides.  The  guide 
now  puts  out  his  lamp  as  if  by  accident,  and  catching  the  vis- 
itor by  the  band,  drags  him  through  a  narrow  cleft  into  the 


i 


-'V. 


^ 


THE  BTABBY  BEATENS. 


33 


/f 


'/r' 


body  of  the  mine,  where  there  bursts  upon  his  sight  a  view, 
the  brightness  and  beauty  of  which  is  scarcely  to  be  imagined. 

4.  It  is  a  spacious  plain,  containing  a  little  world  under- 
gromid,  with  horses,  carriages,  and  roads,  displaying  all  the 
bustle  of  business.  This  town  is  wholly  cut  out  of  one  vast 
bed  of  salt,  and  the  space  is  filled  with  lofty  arched  vaults, 
siipported  by  pillars  of  salt,  so  that  the  building  seems  com- 
posed of  the  purest  crystals.        - 

5.  Lights  are  constantly  burning,  and  the  blaze  of  them 
reflecting  from  every  part  of  the  mine,  gives  a  more  splendid 
sight  than  any  human  works  above  ground  could  exhibit.  The 
salt  is,  in  some  places,  tinged  with  all  the  colors  of  precious 
stones,  blue,  yellow,  purple,  red,  and  green ;  and  there  are  en- 
tire columns  wholly,  composed  of  brilliant  masses  of  such  colors. 

6.  From  the  roofs  of  the  arches,  in  many  parts,  the  salt 
hangs  in  the  form  of  icicles,  presenting  all  the  colors  of  the 
rainbow. 

In  various  parts  of  this  spacious  plain  stand  the  huts  of  the 
miners  and  their  families,  some  single,  and  others  in  -clusters 
like  villages.  The  inhabitants  have  very  little  intercourse  with 
the  world  above  ground,  and  many  hundreds  are  bom  and  end 
their  lives  there. 

1.  A  stream  of  fresh  water  runs  through  the  mine,  so  that 
the  mhabitants  have  no  occasion  for  a  supply  from  above :  and 
above  all,  the  Almighty, Creator  of  all  these  wonders  is  not 
forgotten ;  tliey  have  hollowed  out  a  beautiful  chapel,  in  which 
the  Adorable  Sacrifice  is  offered  ;  the  altar,  crucifix,  ornaments 
of  the  chapel,  with  statues  of  our  Blessed  Lady  and  several 
saints,  are  all  of  the  same  beautifhl  material.  - 


^ 


11.   The  Stabby  Heayens. 


Fir'ma-ment,  the  heavens. 
Pro-claim',  announce. 
Plan'et,  a  celestial  body  re- 
volving about  the  sun. 
31a'di-ant,  bright. 


Ter-res'tb.-al,  relating  to  the 

earth. 
Rea'son,  the  faculty  of  judg^ 

ing. 
Glo'ri-ous,  illttstrioiu. 


u 


THE  THIBD  RBADEB. 


1.  rflHE  spacions  firmament  on  high, 
-^   With  all  the  blue,  ethereal  sky, 
And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame/ 
Their  great  Original  proclaim. 

2.  Th'  unwearied  sun,  from  day  to  day, 
Does  his  Creator's  power  display, 
And  publishes  to  every  land. 

The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand.     • 

3.  Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail. 
The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 


'♦ 


i 


7r 


86 


And  nightly  to  the  listening  earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth ; 

4.  While  all  the  stars  that  ronnd  her  bum, 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 
(        And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

6.  What  though  in  solemn  silence  all 
Move  lound  this  dark,  terrestrial  ball, — 
What  thongh  no  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ? 

6.  In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 

h   ^  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice,        > 

Foiever  singing  as  they  shine, 

"  The  hand  that  made  us  is  cUvine.'' 


12.   Cabelesbness. 


Qual'i-ty,  an  attribute. 
Sloven'li-ness,      untidiness ; 

carelessness. 
Yield'ing,  giving  up. 


Frag'ment,  a  small  portion. 
A-void'ed,  shunned. 
Sur-prise',  wonder-  suddenly 
excited. 


MARY  BELL  was  a  little  girl  who,  though  she  had  many 
good  qualities,  was  also,  like  most  persons,  possessed  of 
some  very  bad  ones.  One  of  her  worst  faults  was  her  negli- 
gence and  carelessness,  which  showed  itself  in  many  matters, 
and  especially  in  her  dress. 

2.  She  was  affectionate,  kind-hearted,  and  good-natured  ; 
always  ready  to  assist  otiers,  even  when  by  so  doing  she 
stood  in  the  way  of  her  own  pleasure.  But,  alas  I  her  sloven- 
liness, 

"  Like  a  cloud  before  the  skies, 
Hid  aU  her  better  qualities." 


^£0t^ :  jL^'ii"  '^**  f 


THB  THIBD  Bii!AT>»R- 


3.  This  trait  in  Mary's  character  gave  her  mother  a  great 
deal  of  trouble.  She  did  not  want  her  little  girl  to  be  vain 
of  dress,  which  is  yery  foolish  as  well  as  wicked,  but  she 
wished  to  see  her  neatr-  and  careful. '  Mary  sometimes  suffered 
much  inconvenience  from  her  carelessness.  She  would  often, 
when  preparing  for  a  walk  or  ride,  waste  half  an  hour  in  look- 
ing for  a  missing  glove  or  stocking,  and  when  found,  the  article 
was  generally  so  much  out  of  repair,  as  hardly  to  be  worn  with 
decency. 

4.  .But  she  had  got  the  habit  of  throwing  her  things  about, 
and  letting  them  go  unmended,  and  it  seemed  impossible  to 
break  her  of  it.  So  true  it  is  that  children  should  be  very 
careful  how  they  form  habits  that  may  cling  to  them  through 
life,  and,  if  bad,  cause  them  much  trouble. 

5.  About  l^alf  a  mile  tcoxa  Mrs.  Bell's  there  lived  a  very 
nice  old  woman,  who  had  formerly  been  a  housekeeper  in  the 
family,  and  who  was  very  fond  indeed  of  little  Mary.  Mary, 
in  return,  loved  Mrs.  Brown,  as  the  -old  woman  was  called, 
and  was  always  delighted  to  be  the  bearer  of  the  little  delica- 
cies which  her  mother  often  sent  to  her. 

6.  One  Saturday  morning  Mrs.  Bell  called  Mary  to  her,^ 
and  told  her  that  as  she  had  been  a  go,od  girl,  and  learned  all 
her  tasks  that  week  very  well,  she  might  go  over  and  spend, 
the  day  with  Mrs.  Brown,  adding,  that  when  she  was  dressed, 
she  would  find  a  pitcher  of  broth  on  the  dining-table,  which 
she  wished  her  to  take  with  her.  Mary  was  delighted  with 
the  permission,  and  ran  up-stau's  as  fast  as  possible  to  get 
ready. 

7.  As  usual,  half  the  articles  she  wanted  to  wear  were  miss- 
ing, and  no,  two  in  the  same  place,  so  that  a  long  time  was 
consumed  in  looking  for  them.  One  of  her  shoes  was  in  her 
bedroom,  but  where  the  other  had  gone  was  a  mystery  which 
no  one  in  the  house  could  solve.  The  servants  were  called 
from  their  work  to  know  if  they  had  seen  it,  but  none  of  them 
knew  any  thing  about  it. 

8.  After  wasting  a  long  time  in  this  way ^  Mary  happened 
to  recollect  that  the  night  before  she  had  puUed  it  off,  on  ac- 
count of  its  hurting  her,  and  thrown  it  under  the  parlor  lounge> 


V 


[ 


0ABEIJH98NE8S. 


87 


where  it  was  found:  The  string  was  ont ;  but  being  by  this 
time  in  a  great  hurry,  Mary  conclnded  it  would  stay  on  with- 
out one,  and  put  it  on  as  it  was.  '  In  changing  her  dress,  she 
noticed  a  small  rent  in  the  skirt,  which  her  mother  had  told 
her  of  some  days  before,  but  which  she  had  forgotten  to  mend. 

9.  "  Never  mind,"  thought  she,  "  it  will  not  be  noticed,  and 
I  can  sew  it  up  when  I  come  home."  One  glove  was  in  her 
pocket,  and  the  other,  after  some  search,  she  found  in  her  ret- 
icule. These  required  mending  also^  but  were  thrust  on  with- 
out it.  The  string  of  her  bonnet  was  ripped  off,  and  being  in 
too  much  haste  to  fasten  it  properly,  she  merely  stuck  a  pin 
in  it,  hoping  that  this  would  answer  the  purpose.  Being  at 
ladt  ready,  Mary  took  the  pitcher,  which  was  a  very  handsome 
one,  and  started  on  her  journey. 

10.  It  was  a  lovely  day,  and  she  went  on  for  some  distance 
in  the  greatest  glee,  although  her  shoe  kept  slipping  up  and 
down  in  a  most  troublesome  manner.  She  was  thinking  how 
much  pleaded  Mrs.  Brown  would  be  to  see  her,  and  get  the 
nice  broth,  when,  in  crossing  a  stile,  the  corner  of  one  of  the 
steps  caught  in  the  rent  in  her  dress,  and  tore  a  hole  in  the 
thin  lawn  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  yard  wide, 

11.  Poor  Mary  could  have  cried  heartily  at  seeing  her 
pretty  frock  spoiled,  but  remembering  that  crying  would  not 
repair  the  injury,  she  forced  back  her  tears,  and  pinned  it  up 
as  well  as  she  could.  After  having  done  this,  she  took  up  her 
pitcher  and  went  on,  though  not  quite  so  gayly  as  before,  for 
she  was  afraid  of  receiving  a  scolding  from  her  mother ;  and 
she  felt  that  she  deserved  one  for  not  having  mended  her  dress, 
as  she  was  told  to  do. 

12.  Her  troubles  had  hardly  begun ;  for  she  had  not  gone 
much  further  when  the  pin  came  out  of  her  bonnet«tring,  and 
a  gust  of, wind  carried  away  her  bonnet,  and  sent  it  flying 
across  the  field.  Mary  set  down  her  pitcher  and  ran  after  it 
as  fast  as  she  could;  but  every  time  she  got  near  to  it, 
another  puff  of  wind  would  take  it  far  out  of  her  reach,  until 
at  last  it  was  blown  into  a  sort  of  marshy  place  at  the  bottom 
of  the  field. 

13.  In  her  efforts  to  regain  it,  her  foot  sank  deep  mto  the 


witift^if 


8B  THB  THIBD  RTtADKB. 

■oft,  yielding  earth,  and  when  she  got  it  oat,  the  shoe  which 
had  no  string  to  lieep  it  on  was  left  behind.  Poor  Mary  was 
almost  heart-broken  at  the  loss  of  her  shoe ;  and  her  bonnet — 
which  was  floating  in  a  mud-puddle — was  a  mere  mass  of  wet 
ribbons  and  dirty  straw.  She  stood  crying  for  some  time, 
when  happening  to  remember  the  pitcher  which  she  had  left  at 
the  end  of  the  field,  she  started  to  look  for  it. 

14.  The  stones  and  sticks  were  so  painful  to  her  bare  little 
foot,  that  she  was  ahnost  lame  before  she  reached  the  spot. 
Here,  alas  !  another  misfortune  awaited  her.  A  dog  happen- 
ing to  come  along  during  her  absence  had  smelled  the  soup, 
and  tried  hard  to  get  it.  In  so  doing  he  had  knocked  the 
pitcher  over  against  a  stone,  and  there  it  lay,  broken  in  a 
dozen  pieces.    This  was  too  much  for  Mary. 

15.  She  sat  down  on  the  ground  by  the  firagments,  and 
cried  as  though  her  little  heart  would  break.  Poor  child  1 
she  was  in  a  sad  dilemma  indeed.  She  could  not  go  to  Mrs. 
Brown's  in  this  plight — without,  her  bonnet,  with  but  one 
^oe,  her  hair  tangled  and  matted,  and  her  frock  soiled  and 
torn ;  and  she  was  afraid,  if  she  went  home,  her  mother  would 
he  offended  at  the  results  of  her  carelessness.  She  thought 
how  easily  all  this  could  have  been  avoided  by  a  little  care 
and  a  few  stitches. 

16.  She  was  still  sitting  sobbing,  when  she  heard  a  voice 
behind  her  exclaim  in  a  tone  of  surprise,  "  Mary,  is  it.  possi- 
ble I  Why,  what  can  you  be  doing  here  ? "  Mary  turned, 
and  saw  through  her  tears  her  father's  face  looking  kmdly 
but  in  surprise  upon  her.  As  well  as  her  sobs  would  permit, 
she  told  him  the  events  of  the  morning  exactly  as  they  had 
occurred. 

It.  "Well,  Mary,"  said  her  father,  when  she  had  finished,^ 
"  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  in  so  much  trouble ;  but  your  mother 
has  often  warned  you  of  the  effects  which  must  result  from 
your  extreme  carelessness;  but  dry, your  eyes  now,  and  come 
home  with  me ;  this  is  no  place  for  you."  "Oh  !  papa,  how 
can  I?  Ma  will  be  so  angry  with  me. for  losing  .my  bonnet 
•nd  shoe,  and  breaking  her  pitcher." 

18,  "  Never  mind,  my  poor  child ;  come  with  me,  and  I  do 


r 

I 


* 


'  I 


i 


PBOPAOAnoM  OF  THE  FAITH. 


89 


not  think  jova  mother  will  panish  joti,  if  she  Ciees  how  mrrj 
you  are  ftJr  your  carelessness ;  come  1 " 

Mrs.  Bell  was  surprised  at  Mary's  appearance  ;  bat  when 
she  heard  h(  r  story,  and  saw  how  distressed  she  really  was, 
she  did  not  scold  her,  but  merely  told  her  she  hoped  her  morn- 
ing's adventures  would  teach  her  to  be  more  careful  in  future. 

19.  I  am  happy  to  be  able  to  tell  my  little  readers,  that 
Mary  has  learned  wisdom  by  experience,  and  is  now  all  that 
her  parents  can  desire. 


13.  Congregation  op  the  Propagation  of  the  Fatth. 


Su-preme',  highest  and  greatest. 

Pa'oak,  a  heathen,  an  idola- 
tor. 

In-sti-4^'tion,  system  estab- 
lished. 


Doe-u'MEMTS,  important  pa- 
pers. 

De-part'msnt,  diyision  for  the 
performance  of  certain  da- 
ties. 


i 


I 


THE  object  of  this  Congregation  is  to  spread  the  Christian 
Religion  over  the  whole  world.  Before  cor  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  ascended  into  Heaven,  He  said  to  St.  Peter  and  the 
other  Apostles,  "Qo  teach  all  nations.'^  The  Pope,  who  is 
the  successor  of  St.  Peter,  is  the  Supreme  Pontiff,  or  Chief 
Bishop  of  the  Catholic  world.  He  is  the  one  from  whom  the 
missionary  receives  his  commission  to  preach  the  gospel  to 
pagan  nations. 

2.  One  of  the  chief  objects  of  the  Pope  is  to  send  mis- 
sionary priests  to  the  farthest  parts  of  the  earth,  and  to  direct, 
.  assist,  and  support  them  while  they  labor  for  the  salvation  of 
souls — for  the  Pope  is  the  head  pastor  or  shepherd  over  the 
flock  of  Christ,  and  his  heart  yearns  to  brmg  the  poor  pagans 
into  the  one  fold.  In  'this  holy  work,  he  is  assisted  by  the 
Sacred  College  of  Cardinals,  a  portion  of  which  form  what  is 
called  the  Sacred  Congregation  de  Propaganda,  which  means 
the  Sacred  Congregation  for  the  spreadfaig  of  the  Futh.    To 


tmitsmoiiaiuumm 


40 


THE  THIBD  RFiAT)FiR. 


this  Congregation  is  committed  the  management  of  the  Cath- 
olic missions. 

3.  This  society  was  first  commenced  by  Pope  Gregory  the 
Fifteenth,  in  1622.  He  formed  it,  and  supplied  it  with  Ainds 
for  its  support  His  successor,  Urban  the  Eighth,  favored 
the  Congregation,  and  set  apart  large  sums  of  money  for  its 
success.  , 

4.  So  much  good  has  been  done  by  the  Propaganda  that 
many  pious  lay  persons  have  given  large  donations  to  help  the 
good  missionaries,  for  they  wished  to  have  a  share  in  the  merits 
of  those  who,  forsaking  their  homes,  peril  their  lives  to  preach 
the  gospel  of  Christ  to  the  poor  heathen  nations. 

5.  The  managers  of  the  Sacred  Congregation  of  the  Propa- 
ganda receive  letters  from  the  missionaries  all  over  the  world. 
Those  letters  are  very  interesting,  and  edifying.  They  contain 
accounts  of  the  zeal  and  sufferings,  and  very  often  the  martyr- 
dom, both  of  the  missionaries  and  converts  in  pagan  countries. 
Perhaps  you  have  read  the  account  of  the  martyrdom  of  the 
good,  religious,  and  many  others,  who  were  killed  in  China  in 
1870  by  their  pagan  persecutors. 

The  Holy  Father  has  all  the  letters  and  other  important 
documents  that  relate  to  the  Propaganda  carefully  preserved. 

6.  There  is  a  printing  establishment  connected  with  the  in- 
stitution, which  is  coi^idered  the  most  valuable  in  the  world. 
It  is  furnished  with  types  or  characters  of  forty-eight  different 
languages,  by  means  of  which  the  Holy  Scriptures,  works  of 
instruction,  and  other  books,  may  be  printed  in  that  number  of 
languages.  This  is  a  great  help  in  the  labor  of  spreading  the 
gospel  among  foreign  nations. 

1.  But  the  most  important  department  of  this  Congregation 
is  the  College  of  the  Propaganda,  as  it  is  usually  called.  This 
famous  school  was  founded  by  Pope  Urban  the  Eighth,  in 
182t,  and  may  be  justly  considered  as  the  seminary  of  the 
universal  Church.  The  design  of  this  school  is  to  educate,  for 
the  priesthood,  young  men  from  all  the  nations  of  the  earth. 

8.  Here  may  be  found  Chinese,  Greeks,  Arabians,  Ethio* 
plans,  Syrians,  Bulgarians,  Turks,  Italians,  French,  Belgians, 
English,  Irish,  Ssotcb,  Americans,  Dutch,  Germans,  Spaniards, 


1*1 


PBOPAOATION  OF  THE  FAITH. 


41 


«B 


A 


POTtngnese,  Poles,  Rassians,  with  the  inhabitants  of  various 
other  portions  of  the  globe — representing,  in  all,  between  forty 
and  fifty  tribes  and  nations  of  the  earth. 

9.  These  are  taught  free  of  charge,  all  the  branches  of 
sacred  and  profane  learning,  and  thus  prepared,  when  raised 
to  the  holy  order  of  priesthood,  to  enter  upon  the  duties  of 
the  mission  in  their  native  countries,  or  bear  the  light  of 
Christ's  gospel  to  pagan  nations. 

10.  Every  year  within  the  octave  of  the  Epiphany,  it  is 
usual  for  the  students  of  this  College  to  celebrate  the  festival 
by  a  solemn  academical  exhibition.  A  Latin  prose  composi- 
tion is  first  read,  followed  by  poetry  written  in  the  various 
languages.  In  1841  the  compositions  and  speeches  read  on 
the  occasion,  were  in  forty-four  different  languages. 

11.  In  this  great  variety  of  languages,  we  may  see  that  the 
Catholic  Church  is  universal,  that  is,  spread  over  all  nations  ; 
and  in  this  gathering  of  the  youth  of  all  nations  and  languages 
into  one  school  for  the  purpose  of  learning  one  Faith,  under 
the  one  chief  Pastor,  we  see  the  unity  of  the  Catholic  Church, 
that  Church  which  our  Lord  founded  for  the  purpose  of  teach- 
ing all  nations. 

12.  The  priests  of  the  Catholic  Church  are  never  afraid  to 
brave  all  the  dangers  and  privations  they  must  sufier  when 
living  among  savages  and  barbarians,  and  they  willingly  leave 
all  the  enjoyments  of  civilized  life  to  labor  for  the  salvation  of 
rfouls. 

13.  Those  trained  in  the  College  of  the  Propaganda  are 
well  prepared  to  perform  this  charitable  work  ;  no  difference  in 
language  or  custom  can  hinder  them  from  being  understood  by 
those  among  whom  they  labor,  for  they  are  enabled  to  speak 
to  the  various  tribes  of  the  earth  in  their  native  tongue,  and  in 
this  manner  they  can  easily  teach  them  the  divine  truths  of  the 
Gospel. 


1 


'42 


THE  THIRD  BENDER. 


14   Live  fob  Something. 


EM-piiOY'MENT,  occupation. 
Self'ish,  regarding  one's  own 

interest  solely. 
Op-pressed',  burdened.  * 


Sym'pa-thy,   compassion,   fel- 
low-feeling: 
Wea'ry,  fatigued. 
Foun'tain,  a  j(Bt  of  water 


4 


tfj)nwiJ*» 


1.  T  IVE  for  something ;  be  not  idle — 
J-J  Look  about  thee  for  employ ; 

Sit  not  down  to  useless  dreaming — 
Labor  is  the  sweetest  joy. 

Folded  hands  are  ever  weary. 
Selfish  hearts  are  never  gay, 

Life  for  thee  hath  many  duties — 
Active  be,  then,  while  you  may. 

2.  Scatter  blessings  in  thy  pathway  I 

Gentle  words  and  cheering  smiles 
Better  are  than  gold  and  silver, 

With  their  grief-<lispelling  wiles. 
As  the  pleasant  sunshine  falleth 

Ever  on  the  grateful  earth, 
So  let  sympathy  and  kindness 

Oladden  well  the  darkened  hearth. 


v» 


«7 


* 


' 


PBEDOMINAKT  PASSIONS. 

Hearts  there  are  oppress'd  and  weary ; 

Drop  the  tear  of  sympathy, 
Whisper  words  of  hope  and  comfort, 

Qive  and  thy  reward  shall  be — 
Joy  anto  thy  soul  returning 

From  this  perfect  fountain-head ; 
Freely,  as  thou  freely  givest, 

Shall  the  grateful  light  be  shed. 


48 


15.   Predominant  Passions. 


I 


Mas'ter-t,  control,  superior 
influence. 

TJn-RE  A '  SON  -  A  -  BLE,    withoUt 

reason. 
Re-com-mend'ed,  advised. 


Hauoh'ti-ness,  an  overbeaiv 

ing  manner. 
Dis-gust'ino,  exciting  dislike, 

odious,  hateful. 
Gon'temft,  act  of  despising. 


IT  is  not  usual,  tha.tin  young  persons,  whose  characters  have 
not  taken  any  settled  form,  any  vice  should  have  gained  so 
decided  an  ascendency,  as  to  enable  themselves  or  others  to 
discern  clearly  the  nature  of  their  prevailing  passion.  Qen- 
erally  speaking,  they  should  be  more  anxious  to  correct  all 
their  faults,  than  to  find  out  the  chief  among  them ;  as  that 
is  not  easily  seen  until  they  are  placed  amid  the  busy  scenes  of 
the  world. 

2.  Still,  as  they  cannot  be  made  acquainted  too  early  with 
the  wretched  eflfects  of  vice,  it  would  be  advisable  for  them  to 
examine  their  consciences  now  and  then  lest  any  evil  propen- 
sity may  take  root  in  their  hearts,  thereby  become  the  princi- 
ple of  their  actions,  and  frustrate  the  ends  proposed  in  Chris- 
tian education. 

3.  This  prevailing  passion  of  most  persons  is  Pride,  which 
never  fails  to  produce  not  only  thoughts  of  pride  and  vanity, 
but  also  such  haughtiness  of  manner  and  self-importance,  as  to 
render  them  really  disgusting  and  ridiculous. 

4.  Constantly  endeavoring  to  attract  attention,  and  become 


u 


THE  THIBD  READER. 


the  sole  object  of  attention,  they  spare  no  pains  to  ontdo 
others,  to  set  themselves  off,  and  by  then*  conceited  ah's,  their 
forwardness,  then*  confidence  in  their  own  opinion,  and  neglect 
or  contempt  of  that  timid,  gentle,  retiring  manner,  so  amiable 
and  so .  attractive,  especially  in  youth,  they  defeat  their  own 
purpose,  and  become  as  contemptible  as  they  aun  at  being  the 
contrary. 

5.  Many  are  so  little  sensible  of  the  awful  duties  imposed 
by  Chriatiasi  x;harUy,  as  to  be  ever  ready  to  blame,  criticise, 
and  condeim  all  who  come  under  their  notice,  and  this  is  one 
of  the  most  dangerous  propensities,  as  the  occasions  for  matii- 
festing  it  occur  very  often,  and  frequently  lead  to  mortal  sin. 
Persons  who  are  thus  badly  disposed,  talk  continually  of  the 
faults  of  others,  which  they  are  always  inclmed  to  exagger- 
ate, though  often  those  defects  exist  only  m  the  detractor's 
embittered  imagination,  which  represents  others  in  so  unfavor- 
able a  point  of  view,  as  to  subject  their  actions  to  the  most 
unkind  censure.    '  .,   ,./    , 

6.  To  this  may  be  added  a  fondness  for  sarcasm,  which  crit- 
icises and  turns  every  thing  and  every  person  into  ridicule, 
sparing  neither  superiors,  friends,  enemies,  nor  even  the  most 
sacred  characters,  such  as  clergymen.  This  disposition  never 
fails  to  make  numerous  enemies ;  and,  though  sometimes  en- 
couraged by  laughter  and  smiles  of  approval,  yet  it  neverthe- 
less is  generally  as  hated  as  it  is  hateful. 

7.  Those  whose  temper  is  violent  and  unrestrained,  cannot 
be  ignorant  that  anger  is  their  prevailing  passion — -theu*  fre- 
quent, unreasonable,  and  impetuous  sallies  of  auger,  on  the 
slightest  occasions,  render  intercourse  with  them  as  unsafe  as 
it  would  be  with  a  maniac.  Such  dreadful  and  mournful  con- 
sequences have  followed  from  even  one  fit  of  passion,  as  to 
render  any  family  truly  unhappy,  who  may  possess  a  member 
with  a  violent  temper. 

8.  Those  who  feel  inclined  to  this  passion,  should,  while 
young,  use  all  their  efforts  to  overcome  so  dangerous  a  dis- 
position. Reason,  affection*  for  their  family,  proper  regard  for 
all  those  with  whom  they  may  be  connected,  and,  abc 'e  all, 
religion,  fiirnish  powerful  motives  and  means  for  reducing  any 


4 


u 


V 


iiitteai.A!i 


•^   r 


PREDOMINANT  PASSIONS. 


46 


*? 


6 


u 


\ 


1 


temper,  however  violent,  to  the  standard  of  Christian  meek- 
ness. The  chief  among  those  means  is  prayer,  and  the  next, 
perhaps  the  most  effeetaal,  is  complete  silence  under  all  emo- 
tions of  anger. 

9.  There  are  many  other  persons  who,  though  they  do  not 
rank  among  the  passionate,  are  nevertheless  the  pests  of 
society,-T-particularly  of  domestic  society.  Their  prevailing 
passion  is  a  certain  ill-humor,  fretfulness,  peevishness,  and 
discontent,  which  pervades  their  words,  manners,  and  even 
looks ;  and  it  is  usually  brought  into  action  by  such  mere 
trifles,  as  leave  no  chance  of  peace  to  those  who  live  in  the 
house  with  them. 

10.  Children  and  servants  are  not  the  only  butts  of  their 
spleen ;  but  even  their  best  friends,  their  superiors  themselves, 
are  not  always  secure  jrom  then*  ill-tempered  sallies  and  their 
incessant  complaints.  In  a  word,  their  sourness,  their  dissat- 
isfied, discontented  manner,  eflTectually  embitters  every  society, 
and  throws  a  gloom  over  the  most  innocent  amusements.  As 
this  luckless  disposition  is  peculiarly  that  of  women,  young 
persons  cannot  be  too  earnestly  reconunended  to  combat  in 
youth  any  tendency  thereto,  lest  they  become,  when  older,  the 
greatest  torment  of  that  society  they  are  certainly  intended 
to  bless  and  adorn.  • 

11.  Sloth,  which  is  the  prevailing  passion  of  many  persons, 
is  also  one  of  those  vices  most  difficult  to  correct.  It  sb  )ws 
itself  by  habitual  indolence,  and  such  negligence  and  apathy, 
that  no  duty,  however  serious,  can  rouse  a  person  of  this 
character  to  exertion.  Days,  weeks,  and  even  years,  pass 
over  without  any  account  of  how  they  have  passed;  for 
though  the  indolent  form  many  projects  of  amendment,  yet 
those  projects  are  never  executed,  because  then*  postponement 
is  the  effect  of  sloth.  _ 

12.  Any  tiiL'  but  the  present  appears  calculated  for  the 
discharge  of  duty,  precisely  because  the  most  heroic  efforts  in 
prospect  cost  less  than  a  single  actual  exertion.  Thence  it 
follows,  that  spiritual  duties  are  so  long  neglected  and  de- 
ferred, that  the  torpor,  which  in  youth  could  easily  have  been 
broken  off,  gains  such  a  mastery  that  it  becomes  almoflt  war 


1 


46 


THE  THIBD  HEADER. 


i 


conquerable,  and  at  length  reduces  the  soul  to  that  dreadful 
state  commonly  called  tepidity,  which  is  only  another  word  for 
sloth  in  spiritual  matters. 

Then  it  is  that  every  social  and  personal  duty  is  aban- 
doned ;  children,  servants,  aflFairs,  spiritual  and  temporal,  order, 
cleanliness,  every  thing  is  neglected,  and  permitted  to  run  into 
such  disorder  and  confusion,  as  to  render  the  persons  degraded 
by  this  vice,  no  less  a  disgrace  to  themselves  than  to  their 
friends  atid  to  society.  In  a  word,  there  is  no  passion  which 
leads  more  certainly  to  misery  hereafter  ;  for,  after  all,  the  in- 
animate victim  of  sloth,  who  has  lived  without  energy  without 
sentiment,  almost  without  a  soul,  will  at  last  be  thoroughly 
roused  by  death,  whose  approach  is  terrible  indeed  to  those 
who  lead  a  useless,  inactive,  idle,  and,  therefore,  a  most  sinful 
life. 

14.  Those  whose  prevailing  passion  is  deceit,  are  frequently 
not  considered  dangerous  characters,  until  they  have  given 
many  persons  cause  to  repent  having  had  any  intercourse 
with  them.  Their  manners  are  generally  as  seductive  as  their 
motives  are  base  and  interested.  They  are  usually  distinguish- 
ed by  a.  total  disregard  for  truth ;  a  base  system  of  appearing 
to  coincide  with  every  one,  the  better  to  gain  that  confidence 
which  they  only  intend  to  abuse  ;  deceptive  expressions — con- 
tinual cunning  and  deceit — ^with  so  great  an  opposition  to 
candor  and  plain -dealing,  as  to  adopt  a  thousand  underhand 
means  for  carrymg  on  then:  most  sunple  and  ordinary  transac- 
tions, thereby  engaging  themselves  and  others  in  a  labyrinth 
of  difficulties,  and  spending  theu*  whole  lives  in  trouble,  in 
dissimulation,  and  d^eit. 

15.  Even  apart  from  religion,  the  natural  desire  we  all  have 
for  happiness  and  security,  should  be  motives  enough  for  using 
efforts  to  counteract  every  tendency  to  this  mean  vice.  It 
proves  in  general,  sooner  or  later,  its  own  punishment ;  for, 
nptwithstanding  the  deep-laid  schemes,  the  cunning  and.  arti- 
fices of  those  who  seem  to  live  for  the  purpose  of  deceiving 
then*  fellow-creatures,  yet  the  depravity  and  meanness  of  their 
motives  in  all  theu*  actions,  are  seen  through  much  clearer  and 
more  frequently  than  they  are  aware.    Besides,  one  lie  or  trick 


/      'T 


a  iiiiiM 


\      V 


\\ 


fJua,o«:,AOT  f^jom. 


?ften  requires  many  more  tn    •     •  ^^ 

invent  these  their  mi^  ^^^  ^*  a  show  of  fm*i. 

as  their  craft  r«  "^  ™"'*  ^e  constantly  n  Vk^*^'  '^"^  ^ 

open/y,  they  are  car Jf  ?^  '"  *^'^  ^'"^end  to  del?  J  •  , 


•f 


^A-CLE,  that  wnich  hinders. 


T^E  capital  fault  of  cnmn  ''^jWKI^ 

there  are  two  I   ?"     ^*  ^'^^'^^J'  Wever   h!    k    ""^"^  «^'°«' 


ligfcMifMirlli'miiiMiimil^iii 


48 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


t^" 


/ 


distinguished,  one  from  the  other,  by  their  different  effects. 
That  species  of  cariosity  which  is  innocent  and  desirable, 
especially  in  young  persons,  consists  in  a  laudable  desire  of 
useful  information ;  this  thirst  after  knowledge,  when  well  reg- 
ulated, produces  emulation,  application  to  study,  patience  and 
perseverance  in  diflficulties,  good  employment  of  fime,  and  a 
love  for  the  society  and  conversation  of  tfie  learned.  "^ 

2.  The  vice  of  curiosity,  on  the  contraiy,  is  the  bane  of 
useful  acquirement,  because  it  consists  chiefly  in  an  eager 
desire  to  hear  and  see  every  trifling  event  that  takes  place, 
and  gives  persons  so  much  to  do  with  the  concerns  of  others,  as 
to  leave  them  no  time  to  attend  to  theu*  own.  Curious  persons 
are  always  on  the  look-out  for  what  is  termed  news ;  and  as 
that  levity  and  sliallowness  of  mind  which  produces  misguided 
curiosity,  creates  also  a  taste  for  unnecessary  talk,  they  are 
never  so  well  satisfied  as  when  they  have  discovered  a  number 
of  incidents  to  circulate  among  their  friends  and  acquaintance. 

3.  Their  inquisitive  air, — theu:  prying  and  intrusive  man- 
ners,— their  incessant  questions, — :their  eager  impatience  to  be 
informed  of  every  incident  that  tak^s  place,  and  minute  inquiries 
into  the  affairs  of  others,  woliUl  lead  to  the  idea  that  they 
were  commissioned  to  investigate  the  origin,  ancestor,  names, 
tempers,  fortunes,  and  faults  of  every  person  that  comes  in 
their  way.  Even  the  secrets  of  families,  which  curiosity  itself 
should  respect,  are  by  no  means  sacred  to  the  inquisitive,  nor 
are  even  the  most  trivial  domestic  occurrences  below  their 
notice. 

4.  On  the  contrary,  to  gain  such  information,  they  do  not 
hesitate  descending  so  low  as  to  question  children  and  serv- 
ants; thereby  giving  occasion  to  numberless  chmes  against 
charity,  often  against  truth.  Anothe|r  propensity  of  curious 
persons  is  a  desu^  to  hear  and  see  precisely  those  things  which 
they  have  been  told  were  dangerous,  and  to  re^d  every  species 
of  publication  which  they  have  ever  been  told  to  avoid,  or  know 
to  be  at  all  unsafe.  This  contemptible  disposition  can  only  be 
rectified  by  many  years'  strict  attention  to  the  short  rule  of 
never  interfermg  in  what  does  not  concern  us,  except  when 
fthority  or  duty  dictates  l^e  contrary.  .^ 


■'f^'**'— ^UBtStoi.'. 


.^iiii*" 


...-.i y^^  ^.„,:^.'*^-^ 


re 


\m 


1 


.ruiHIri 


rSEDOMINANT  PASSIONS. 


49 


r." 


\m 


H 


5,  There  are  fe^r  persons,  «'v^en  among  the  best  Christians, 
who  have  not  had,  sometimes,  to  regret  offending  vnth  the 
tongue ;  but  the  feolts  committed  and  mischiefs  occasioned 
by  those  whose  m  bridled  passion  for  tcUk  is  their  predomi- 
nant failing,  .can  (icarcely  be  estmiated.  This  bad'  babit  is 
chiefly  observed  in  persons  of  weak  heads,  vacant  minds,  and 
shallow  understandings,  who  appear  wholly  incapable  of  one 
instant's  serious  reflection,  and  know  not  what  it  is  to  think 
two  minutes,  even  before  they  undertake  to  decide  upon  im- 
portant matters.  Those  who  talk  always,  cannot  hope  always 
to  talk  sense,  and  hence  their  least  material  faults  are  absurd, 
random  opinions,'  giddy,  inconsistent  expressions,  and  frequent 
faults  against  politeness  and  good-breeding ;  for  we  see  that 
your  great  talkers  never  allow  others  to  deliver  an  opinion,  or 
finish  any  sentence^  without  helping  them  out. 
— '  6.  Their  l&ughable  and  disgusting  egotism,  perpetual  rela- 
tions of  their  own  worthless  adventures,  ideas,  or  opinions, 
which  they  are  too  frivolous  to  perceive  are  interesting  only 
in  their  own  eyes ;  their  system  of  laughing,  whispering,  and 
ridiculing,  generally  mark  out  great  talkers  as  persons  of  little 
or  no  intellect,  though  they  often  do  not  want  sense,  if  they 
could  but  prevail  on  themselves  to  be  Mlent,  and  reflect  ever 
so  little  on  the  necessity  of  making  use  of  that  gift. 

1.  But  those,  however,  are  the  least  serious  faults  produced 
by  excessive  love  of  talk.  Sins  against  charity,  breaches  of 
confidence,  discovery  of  the  secrets  of  others,  indiscreet  com- 
munication of  their  own  affairs  and  those  of  their  families  to 
'acquaintances,  strangers,  even  to  servants;  remarks  on  the 
defects  of  others,  breaches  of  truth,  habitual  exaggeration, 
loss  of  time,  dissipation  and  levity,  are  all  the  ^infallible  con* 
sequences  of  a  passion  for  talking ;  besides  the  dreadfid  evils 
which  unguarded  repetition  of  stories  has  been  known  to  pro- 
duce in  society,  by  disuniting  the  members  of  families,  iiTita- 
ting  and  disgusting  friends,  breeding  disturl)ances,  &2.:  evils 
wjiich  are  much  easier  occasioned  than  removed. 

8.  Could  those  useless  beings,  whose  occupation  is  talk, 
foresee  the  mischief  they  may  occasion,  even  by  one  word^ 
wUfith  often  escapes  theh*  tongue  and  memory  at  the  aiuue 


60 


THE  THIRD  READER. 


I 


time,  how  bitterly  they  would  regret  the  dearly-bought  pleas- 
ure of  talking  1  how  carefully  would  they  study  the  virtue  of 
silence  aud  prudent  restraint  1  and  thus  spare  .themselves  the 
regret  of  having  tmfeelmgly  published  faults  too  true  to  be 
contradicted,  and  stories  too  mischievous  in  their  effects  to  be 
easily  remedied ;  thus  inflicting  wounds  they  cannot  afterwards 
heal. 

9.  There  are  some  persons  who  possess  many  amiable  quali- 
ties, yet  destroy  the  effect  of  them  all  by  one  predominant 
failing,  a  fund  of  caprice  and  inconstancy.  Those  persons 
rarely  succeed  in  gaiuiug  one  sincere  friend ;  on  the  contrary, 
they  seldom  fail  to  disgust  those  whom  they  had  at  first 
attracted,  because  they  frequently  receive  with  marked  reserve 
one  day,  those  whom  they  treated  with  kindness  the  day  before. 
On  one  occasion  these  changeable  beings  will  scarce  allow 
others  to  join  in  a  conversation — ^the  next,  they  will  not  by  a 
single  word  manifest  a  desire  to  please. 

10.  Their  projects  or  undertakings  are  as  variable,  as  their 
'ideas,  and  ai:e  never  pursued  with  such  steadiness  as  would 

encourage  any  rational  persons  to  join  in  them ;  Inor  can  it  ever 
be  conjectured,  from  the  projects  of  one  day  or  houi*;  what 
those  of  the  next  may  be.  They  eagerly  seek  one  moment  after 
those  objects  which  the  next  they  despise ;  and  are  one  day 
dissolved  in  vain  joy,  another  oppressed  with  melancholy.  But 
What  is  infinitely  worse  than  all  is,  that  this  irrational  capji- 
ciousness,  besides  rendering  them  the  jest  of  others,  and  a  bilr- 
den  to  themselves,  materially  endangers  then'  eternal  salvation. 

11.  Their  ideas  and  feelings  on  spiritual  matters  are  just  as 
variable  as  on  all  other  occasions ;  theb  plans  of  amendment 
and  regularity,  though  frequently  entered  on  with  ardor,  are 
as  frequently  abandoned ;  consecjnently  there  can  be  no  per- 
sons so  little  likely  to  gain  a  crown,  which  is  promised  only  to 
perseverance. 

12.  Selfishness  is  a  common  failing,  and  a  peculiarly  un- 
amiable  one,  when  it  predominates  in  a  character.  Those 
persons  who  make  self  their 'idol,  are  from  morning  till  night 
occupied  in  providing  for  their  own  peculiar  gratification  and 
pleasure,  and  in  taking  measures  for  wardmg  off  fircnn  tli^- 


)a 


■^ 


I 


PREDOMINAKT  PASSIONS. 


61 


TJiA 


w 


I 


Jt 


selves  every  thing  in  the  shape  of  trouble,  inconyenience,  prov- 
ocation, &c. ;  thus  they  become  almost  the  sole  objects  of 
their  own  thoughts,  solicitudes,  and  exertions. 

13.  They  generally  manifest  their  predominant  failing  to 
the  least  attentive  observer,  by  an  habitual  inattention  or 
indifference  when  the  gratification  of  others  is  in  question,  by 
an  unfeeling  indifference  to  the  nv'sfortunes  of  their  fellow* 
creatures,  and  by  being  the  last  to  make  an  exertion  for  their 
relief.  They  seem  almost  incapable  of  taking  part  in  the  pains 
or  pleasures  of  others ;  every  species  of  misfortune  or  gratifi- 
cation' pleases  or  grieves  them,  precisely  only  in  as  much  as 
they  perceive  it  is  likely  to  affect  them  personally. 

14.  A  propensity  to  excessive  attachment  is  a  fault  which 
too  frequently  prevails  in  some  warm,  impetuous  characters. 
Those  persons  are  distinguished  by  a  rash,  hasty  selection  of 
favorites  in  every  society ;  by  an  overflow  of  marked  atten- 
tions to  the  objects  of  their  predilection,  whose  interests  they 
espouse,  whose  very  faults  they  attempt  to  justify,  whose 
opuiions  they  support  whether  right  or  wrong,  and  whose 
cause  they  defend  often  at  the  expense  of  good  sense,  charity, 
moderation,  and  even  common  justice. 

15.  Woe  to  the  person,  whether  superior  or  inferior,  who 
ventures  to  dissent  from  them  in  opinion  concemmg  the  objects 
of  their  admiration ;  tkiit  alone  exposes  them  to  aversion  and 
censure.  The  friendship  or  affection  of  such  characters  does 
not  deserve  to  be  valued^  for  it  results  not  from  discernment 
of  merit,  but  blind  prejudice ;  besides,  they  are  remarkable  for 
annoying  those  whom  they  think  proper  to  rank  among  their 
favorites,  both  by  expecting  to  engross  their  whole  attention 
or  confidence,  and  resenting  every  mark  of  kindness  they  may 
think  proper  to  show  to  others.  However,  as  their  affections 
are  m  general  as  short-lived  as  they  are  ardent,  no  one  person 
is  likely  to  be  tormented  long  with  the  title  of  their  friend. 

16.  The  foregoing  are  the  chief  among  those  passions  to 
which  the  majority  of  mankind  are  subject.  There  are  also 
a  variety  of  other  shaperj,  in  which  the  capital  sms  generally 
prevail  in  the  different  characters.  It  would  not  be  easy  to 
mention  them  all,  but  you  will  not  find  it  difficult,  aided  by  the 


52 


THE  THIBD  READER. 


grace  of  God,  to  discover  your  capital  enemy,  provided  yon 
ardently  beg  that  grace  and  light,  and  are  sincerely  desuroas 
to  overcome  it  to  the  utmost^^  of  your  power. 

17.  The  following  marks  by  which  you  may  discern  your 
ruling  passion,  are  pointed  oat  by  St.  Ghrysostom,  and  may 
assist  your  examination  on  this  important  point:  1st.  Your 
prevailuig  passion  is  that  propensity,  disposition,  or  failing, 
which  is  the  ordinary  cause  of  your  faults  and  sins.  2d.  It  is 
that  which  chiefly  disturbs  the  peace  of  your  soul,  and  occa- 
sions you  most  remorse  and  uneasy  reflections.  3d.  That  of 
which  you  are  obliged  to  accuse  yourself  most  frequently  in 
confession. 

18.  4th.  That  which  gives  occasion  to  the  greatest  conflicts 
in  your  soul,  and  which  you  feel  most  repugnance  to  overcome. 
5th.  That  which  usually  influences  all  your  thoughts,  inten- 
tions, or  projects,  and  which  is  the  chief  motive  of  all  your 
actions ;  that,  in  a  word,  which  is  most  untractable  and  deeply 
rooted  in  your  heart ;  for  if,  when  wounded  on  that  point,  you 
feel  sensibly  hurt,  it  is  an  evident  mark  that  there  is  your 
prevailing  passion,  your  carital  enemy,  the  greatest  obstacle 
to  God's  grace,  and  to  yoiar  eternal  salvation. 


,. 


17.    My  Bot  Absalom. 


Pulse,   the    motion    of  the  '  Reed,  a  hollow,  knotted  stalk, 

blood.  I       a  pipe. 

Tress'es,  knots  or  curls  of  Fall,  a  covering  thrown  over 

hair.  I      the  dead. 


t> 


1.    A  LAS  !  my  noble  boy !  t^t  thou  shouldst  die  I 
-^  Thou,  who  wert  made  so  beautifully  fair  I 
That  death  should  settle  m  thy  g'onous  eye, 

And  leave  his  stillness  in  this  clustering  hair  t 
How  could  hfe  mark  thee  for  the  si  ent  tomb  ! 

My  proud  ^t^,  AbsaiDm  1 


i 


MY  BOY  ABSALOM. 


53 


«> 


2.  "  Cold  is  thy  brow,  my  son !  and  I  am  chill, 
As  to  my  bosom  I  have  tried  to  press  thee  I 

How  was  I  wont  to  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 
Like  a  rich  harp-striug,  yearning  to  caress  thee, 

And  hear  thy  sweet  'my  f other  P  from  these  dumb 
And  cold  lips,  Absalom  I 


•<• 


1 


8.  "Bat  death  is  on  thee.     I  shall  hear  the  gush 
Of  music,  and  the  voices  of  the  young ; 

And  life  will  pass  me  in  the  mantling  blush, 
And  the  dark  tresses  to  the  soft  winds  flung ; — 

Bat  thou  no  more,  with  thy  sweet  voice,  shall  come 
To  meet  me,  Absalom  ! 

i.  "  And  oh  I  when  I  am  stricken,  and  my  heart. 
Like  a  bruised  reed  is  waiting  to  be  broken, 


54 


THB  THIRD  BEADBB. 


How  will  its  love  for  thee,  as  I  depart, 
Yearn  for  thine  ear  to  drink  its  last  deep  token  I 

It  were  so  sweet,  amid  death's  gathering  gloom, 
To  see  thee,  Absalom  ! 

6.  "  And  now,  farewell  I    'Tis  hard  to  give  thee  up. 
With  death  so  like  a  gentle  slumber  on  thee ; — 

And  thy  dark  sin  ! — Oh  I  I  could  drink  the  cup. 
If  from  this  woe  its  bitterness  had  won  thee. 

May  God  have  call'd  thee,  like  a  wanderer,  home, 
My  lost  boy,  Absalom  1'' . 

6.  He  cover'd  up  his  face,  and  bow'd  himself 
A  moment  on  his  child  ;  then,  giving  him 
A  look  of  melting  tenderness,  he  clasp'd 
His  hands  convulsively  as  if  in  prayer ; 
And,  as  if  strength  were  given  him  of  God, 
He  rose  vp  calmly,  and  composed  the  pall 
Firmly  and  decently — ^and  left  him  there— 
As  if  his  rest  had  been  a  breathing  sleep. 


18.   TdHlDoHOLAB's  Vision. 


Yis'ioN,  supernatural  appear* 

ance. 
Cen'tu-by,  a  hundred  years. 
Stu-pid'my,  extreme  dulness. 


Tuk'bu-lent,  tumultuous,  dis- 
orderly. 
Sup-port'ed,  aided,  assisted. 
Gon-ceal'ino,  hiding. 


AMONG  the  students  of  the  University  of  Padua  during 
the  early  part  of  the  thirteenth  century,  there  was  a 
scholar  by  the  name  of  Albert  de  Groot,  a  native  of  Lawin- 
gen,  a  town  of  Swabia,  now  fallen  mto  decay.  Albert  was 
remarkable  for  his  stupidity  and  the  dulness  of  his  intellect, 
and  was  at  once  the  object  of  ridicule  to  his  companions,  and 
the  victim  of  his  teachers. 

2.  In  addition  to  his  mental  defects,  he  was  timid  and  shy, 
and  without  any  powers  of  speech  to  defend  himself  agamst 


•sy 


ii 


THE  SGHOLAB'S  VISION. 


55 


•*• 


i* 


the  taunts  and  jeers  of  his  schooUnates.  Even  his  diminutivo 
size  for  one  of  his  age,  bemg  then  fifteen  years  old,  did  not 
escape  the  keenness  of  their  satire. 

3.  Albert  was  not  insensible  to  their  raillery,  and  more  than 
once  would  have  listened  to  the  temptation  of  despair,  had  it 
not  been  for  the  care  of  his  virtuous  mother,  the  ardent  piety 
with  which  she  had  inspired  his  youthful  mind,  and  his  tender 
and  lively  devotion  to  the  Blessed  Virgin. 

4.  If  he  felt  it  hard  to  endure  the  jeers  and  ridicnle  of  his 
companions,  yet,  when  he  considered  that  he  had  neither  read- 
iness, memory,  nor  intelligence,  he  thought  within  himself  that 
probably  ne' deserved  all  their  reproaches ;  and  that  the  career 
of  science,  which  he  so  ardently  desired,  was  not  his  vocation. 

6.  Deeply  influenced  by  this  conviction,  at  the  age  of  six- 
teen, he  applied  for  admission  into  the  Dominican  Order,  think- 
ing that  if  he  did  not  shine  among  the  brilliant  men  who  were 
its  glory,  yet  at  least  he  might  the  better  save  his  soul.  The 
General  of  the  Order,  who  was  of  his  own  country,  gave  him 
a  kind  welcome,  and  received  him  into  the  convent  to  complete 
his  studies. 

'~^.  But,  alas  !  he  found  in  the  cloister  the  same  sorrows  he 
had  sought  to  avoid.  His  slow  wit  and  dull  intellect  could 
take  in  nothing,  or  express  nothing;  and  though  he  found 
more  charity  among  the  novices  than  among  the  turbulent 
students  of  the  university,  yet  he  saw  clearly  that  he  was 
looked  upon  as  the  lowest  in  the  house. 

7.  His  piety  and  humility  for  a  long  time  supported  him ; 
his  courage  did  not  fail ;  ho  looked  forward  with  hope  to  the 
day  when  his  perseverance  should  surmount  all  obstacles  and 
break  the  bonds  which  held  him  captive.  He  took  the  habit, 
and  became  a  monk ;  but  still  his  backwardness  as  a  scholar 
continued. 

8.  After  two  years  of  patience,  he  began  to  be  thoroughly 
discouraged ;  he  thought  he  hod  been  mistaken ;  that  perhaps 
he  had  yielded  to^  an  impulse  of  pride  in  entering  an  order 
whose  mission  it  was  to  preach  to  the  people,  and  to  proclaim 
to  the  world  the  faith  of  Christ;  and  which,  consequently, 
ought  to  be  distinguished  for  science  as  well  as  for  vurtue; 


5a 


THE  THIBD  READER. 


and  considering  that  he  should  never  be  able  to  master  either 
logic  or  eloquence,  he  resolved  to  fly  from  the  convent. 

9.  Concealing  the  matter,  from  every  human  being,  he  con- 
fided the  subject  of  his  departure  to  the  Blessed  Vurgin,  his 
comforter  in  all  his  trials.  On  the  night  fixed  for  his  de- 
parture he  prayed  longer  than  usual,  then,  after  waiting  till  all 
the  convent  was  asleep,  he  went  from  his  cell,  gained  without 
noise  the  walls  of  the  garden,  and  fixed  a  ladder  against  them. 
But  before  he  ascended,  he  knelt  again  and  prayed  to  God  not 
to  condemn  the  step  he  was  taking,  for  that  nevertheless  ne 
would  serve  him,  and  belong  to  him,  and  to  him  alone. 

10.  As  he  was  about  to  rise,  he  beheld  four  majestic  ladies 
advancing  towards  bim.  They  were  surrounded  by  a  heavenly 
radiance,  while  their  dignity,  tempered  with  sweetness  and  se- 
renity, inspired  him  with  confidence  and  respect.  Two  of  them 
placed  themselves  before  the  ladder,  as  if  to  prevent  him  from 
ascending.  » 

11.  The  third  drawing  near,  asked  him  kindly  why  he  thus 
departed,  and  how  he  could  desert  his  convent  and  throw  him- 
self without  a  guide  into  the  dangers  of  a  wicked  world.  Al- 
bert, without  rising  from  the  ground,  pleaded  as  an  excuse  his 
obstinate  stupidity,  which  resisted  all  the  efforts  of  his  per^ 
severance. 

12.  "It  is,"  said  the  lady,  "because  yon  seek  in  the  mere 
human  strength  of  your  own  intellect,  the  light  which  comes 
only  from  God.  Behold  your  Mother,"  pointing  to  the  fourth 
lady,  "  your  amiable  protectress,  who  loves  you  tenderly  ;  ask 
her  for  the  gift  of  knowledge ;  implore  her  with  confidence ; 
our  intercession  shall  second  you." 

The  scholar  recognized  in  the  fourth  lady  the  Immacu- 
late Queen  of  Heaven,  and  bending  his  face  to  the  ground,  he 
asked  her  in  all  the  fervor  of  his  heart  for  the  light  of  science, 
as  heretofore  he  had  only  prayed  for  the  graces  which  tended 
to  salvation. 

14.  "Science,  my  son,"  answered  the  amiable  Vir^n,  "is 
full  of  dangers ;  but  your  prayer  shall  not  be  rejected.  In 
philosophy,  which  you  so  much  desire,  beware  of  pride ;  let 
not  your  heart  be  puffed  up.    Long  shall  you  possess  the  gift 


^ 


W 


THE  SCHOLAR'S  VISION. 


67 


% 


<4I 


of  science ;  and  I  promise  70a,  as  a  reward  of  your  piety,  that 
its  light  shall  be  withdrawn  from  you  the  moment  it  becomes 
dangerous  to  you." 

15.  The  vision  disappeared,  but  Albert  remained  for  an 
hour  on  his  knees  thanking  God,  and  pouring  forth  the  most 
.  fervent  devotions  to  the  Queen  of  Angels,  who  had  so  kindly 
interposed  in  his  behalf.    He  then  removed  the  ladder  and 
retired  to  his  cell. 
.  16.  The  next  mom  ng  the  whole  convent  was  amazed   at 

nT*  the  astonishing  chanr^^e  that  had  come  over  Albert;  in  his 
classes  he  surpriscci  both  the  teachers  and  scholars.  His 
former  heaviness  had  given  way  to  the  liveliest  and  most  sub- 
tle intelligence ;  he  understood  every  thing ;  the  most  difficult 
problems  were  solved  with  a  clearness  that  astonished  all. 

17.  No  one,  however,  was  aware  of  the  vision,  for  the 
un\>  w  cholar  kept  it  a  secret.  So  rapidly  did  he  advance 
in  br/  i^'adies,  especially  in  philosophy,  that  in  one  year  he 
passed  all  his  companions,  and  even  eclipsed  his  teachers. 
His  piety  and  humility  increased  with  his  learning,  and  he  ever 
remained  inaccessible  to  the  seductions  of  the  world  and  vain 
glory. 

18.  The  scholar,  who  obtained  this  so  wonderfiil  gift  of 
knowledge,  as  the  reward  of  his  tender  devotion  to  the  Blessed 
Virgin,  was  the  celebrated  Alhertua  Magnus,  who  was  so  dis- 
tinguished during  the  thirteenth  century.  For  fifty  years  he 
astonished  all  Europe  by  the  vastness  of  his  learning  and  the 
profoundness  of  his  teaching. 

^9.  Whenever  he  spoke,  crowds  gathered  to  hear  him ;  and 
his  discourse  always  produced  the  most  salutary  results :  yet 
up  to  the  age  of  seventy-five,  he  had  never  experienced  the 
slightest  movement  of  vanity. 

20.  It  happened,  however,  on  a  certain  occasion  as  he  was 
preaching  at  Cologne,  and  seeing  the  inunense  audience  elec- 
trified at  his  discourse,  he  lifted  his  head  with  an  air  of  dignity, 
and  was  about  to  indulge  in  a  thought  of  self-admiration,  when 
he  stopped  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  a  learned  sentence,  and 
descended  from  the  pulpit  without  being  Able  to  finish  it.  He 
had  lost  his  memory 


ss 


THE  THJBD  RWADITiR. 


21.  The  Holy  Virgin,  through  whose  mtercession  he  had 
obtained  the  gift  of  knowledge,  appeared  to  him  and  deprived 
him  of  it  at  the  moment  when  it  was  about  to  become  danger- 
oos  to  him.  He  i  back  into  the  state  of  dullness  which  he 
had  deplored  at  JPadua.  He  understood  the  warning,  <.nd 
devoted  all  his  thoughts  to  prepare  himself  for  a  holy  death, 
which  took  place  two  years  after,  on  the  15th  of  November, 
1282. 

22.  Let  children  learn  from  this  example,  to  place  their 
studies  under  the  patronage  of  the  Queen  of  Heaven,  and 
receive  with  the  gift  of  knowledge,  those  virtues  which  will 
render  them  ornaments  of  society,  and  worthy  candidates  foe 
heaven.    .. 


* 


19.     BiBTH  OF  OUB  SaYIOXTB. 


I'' 


Csn'sus,  numbering. 
Naz'a-reth,    the    village    in- 

.which  oui-  Saviour  lived. 
Beth'le-hem,  the  village    in 

which  our  Saviour  was  bom. 


Ma'gi,  wise  men  of  the  East. 
Ad-mis'sion,  admittance. 
Pur'chased,  bought. 
Mes-si'ah,  name  given  to  our 
Saviour 


Bead  deliberately,  and  pause  to  take  breath  and  compress  your  lips. 
Give  t  itr.  proper  sound.  Do  not  say  puUhm  ioi purchase;  Meamr  for 
Meisiak. 

AUGUSTUS  C-^SAR  having  commanded  a  census  to  be 
taken  of  all  the  population  of  the  empire,  Joseph  and 
Mary  went  from  Nazareth  to  Bethlehem,  whence  their  family 
had  its  origin.  There  it  was  that,  in  the  year  of  the  world 
4004,  the  Son  of  God  came  mto  the  world,  at  the  dead  hour 
of  night  and  in  a  poor  stable,  the  poverty  of  Joseph  being  too 
great  to  pay  for  admission  to  an  inn. 

2.  His  birth  was  speedily  announced  by  the  angels  to  some 
shepherds  who  were  watching  their  flocks  by  night.  "  Olcyry 
to  Ood"  sang  the  heavenly  messengers,  making  known  the 
joyful  tidings,  "  Olory  to  Ood  in  the  highest,  and  on  earth 
peace  to  men  of  good  mil !  " 

3.  Eight  days  after  his  burth  he  was  circumcisttd,  and  on 


I 


BIRTH  OF  OUB  SATIOUII. 


59 


I 


^^( 


that  same  day  the  Blessed  Yirgin  and  St.  Joseph,  confonna- 
bly  to  the  command  which  they  had  received  from  God  by  an 
angel,  gave  him  the  name  of  Jl^ru«,  which  signifies  Saviour, 
because  he  came  to  save  all  m&a.,  and  to  deliver  them  from  sin 
and  hell. 

4.  To  the  name  of  JesvLs  has  been  added  that  of  Christ, 
which  means  sacred  or  anointed,  not  that  he  was  visibly  con- 
secrated by  hands,  but  by  reason  of  his  hypostatical  union 
with  the  Father. 

We  also  call  Jesus  Christ  Our  Lord,  because  he  has  a  par- 
ticular claim  on  all  Christians,  whom  he  has  redeemed  and 
purchased  at  the  price  of  his  blood. 

5.  A  few  days  after  Jesus  was  cux:umcised,  he  was  recog- 
nized as  God  and  as  king  by  three  Magi,  who,  guided  by  a 
star,  came  from  the  East  to  adore  him.  Having  reached 
Jerusalem,  they  lost  sight  of  the  star,  and  went  about  inquir- 
ing for  the  new-born  king  of  the  Jews. 

6.  The  doctors  of  the  law,  being  questioned  by  Herod, 
king  of  Galilee,  made  answer  that  the  Messiah  was  to  be  bom 
in  Bethlehem.  Herod,  being  alarmed  by  this  announcement, 
and  already  meditating  the  death  of  thg  divine  infant,  engaged 
the  Magi  to  return  and  acquaint  him  w'th  the  place  where  the 
child  was  to  be  found,  falsely  saying  that  he,  too,  would  >wish 
to  adoro  him. 

t.  The  Magi,  resuming  their  journey,  found  the  child,  to 
whom  they  presented  gifts  of  gold,  frankincense,  and  mjnrrh ; 
but  being  warned  by  an  angel  that  Herod  only  sought  to  kill 
the  infant,  they  returned  by  another  way  to  their  own  country. 

8.  Forty  days  after  the  birth  of  Jesus,  the  Blessed  Virgin 
and  St.  Joseph  took  him  to  the  temple,  to  present  him  to  God, 
according  to  the  custom  of  the  Jews,  he  being  the  first-born. 
The  Blessed  Yirgin  at  the  same  time  fulfilled  the  law  of  puri- 
fication, and  offered  what  the  law  ordained,  that  is  to  say,  a 
lamb  for  her  son,  and  for  herself,  a  pair  of  doves,  being  the 
gifts  usually  made  by  the  poor — ^what  examples  of  humility, 
and  of  obedience  to  the  law  1 

9.  Herod,  seeing  that  the  Magi  returned  no  more,  conceited 
^e  design  of  putting  to  death  all  children  ander  two  yean 


60 


THB  THIBD  BBAPWIL 


of  age,  whom  he  conid  find  in  Bethlehem  or  its  vicinity,  hop- 
ing thus  to  make  sure  of  destroying  the  Sayioor.  But  St. 
Joseph,  apprised  of  this  design  by  an  angel,  fled  into  Egypt 
with  Jesus  and  Mary,  where  he  remained  till  after  the  death 
of  that  barbarous  pr     i. 

10.  He  then  let. .  Acd  to  Jnaea,  and  again  took  up  his 
abode  m  Nazareth  of  Galilee ;  hence  Jesus  was  called,  through 
contempt,  the  Nazarene. 

The  gospel  tells  us  that  at  the  age  of  twelve  years  Jesus 
was  taken  to  Jerusalem  to  celebrate  Uie  festival  of  the  I  »dch, 
according  to  the  custom  of  the  Jews,  when  he  remained  bo- 
hind  in  the  temple  unperceived  by  his  parents. 

11.  When  they  found  that  he  was  not  with  them,  they  sought 
him  in  vain  for  a  whole  day,  whereupon  they  returned  to  Je- 
rusalem, where  they  found  him  in  the  temple,  seated  amid  the 
doctors,  listening  to  them  and  proposing  to  them  questions  in 
a  manner  so  astonishing  that  all  who  heard  hun  were  surprised 
by  his  wisdom  and  his  answers. 

12.  At  the  age  of  thirty  years,  Jesus  Christ  was  baptized 
by  St.  John  the  Baptist  in  the  river  Jordan ;  at  which  time 
the  Holy  Ghost  descended  upon  him  in  the  form  of  a  dove, 
and  the  eternal  Father  declared  from  the  highest  heavens  that 
Jesus  Christ  was  mdeed  his  beloved  Son. 

13.  Soon  after  this,  Jesus  Christ  was  conducted  by  the 
Holy  Ghost  into  the  desert,  where  he  fasted  forty  days.  It 
is  in  honor  and  in  remembrance  of  this  fast  of  Jesus  Christ 
that  the  Church  has  instituted  the  fast  of  Lent. 

Our  Lord  at  that  time  permitted  himself  to  be  tempted  by 
the  devil,  in  order  to  teach  us  not  to  fear  temptation,  and  also 
the  manner  in  which  we  must  resist  it,  so  as  to  render  it  even 
profitable  to  our  souls. 

14.  Example.  A  certain  mother  whose  piety  was  as  great 
as  her  faith  was  enlightened,  reconmiended  to  her  children  to 
pass  no  day  without  asking  the  child  Jesus  for  his  blessing. 
"  When,"  said  she,  "  you  are  at  your  morning  and  evening 
prayers,  picture  to  yourself  the  Blessed  Virgin,  carrying  in 
her  arms  th«  infant  Jesus, 

15.  "  Bow  d«wn  respectfully  before  her,  and  say  with  all 


, 


BPAMIBH  ANECDOTE. 


61 


possible  fervor ;  '0  Mary !  deign  to  e:ctend  over  me  the  hand 
of  thy  divine  Son,  so  that  being  blessed  by  him,  I  may  avoid 
the  evil  which  is  displeasing  to  him,  and  practise  the  good 
which  is  agreeable  to  him ;  that  I  may  imitate  him  in  his 
obedience  and  in  all  his  other  virtues,  m  that  I  may  become 
worthy  of  possessing  him  with  thee  in  hrmven  I"' 


20.    A  Spanish  Anecdote. 


BEF's(vro-RY,  a  dining-room  in 

convents  and  monasteries. 
Ge-ron'o-mite,  a  monk. 
Dis-gerned',  descried,  seen. 


FA-mL'iAii,     intimate,    well^ 

known. 
Ec'sTA-sT,  rapture,  trance. 
Va'oant,  empty. 


1.  TT  was  a  holy  usage  to  record 

J-  Upon  each  refectory's  side  or  end 
The  last  mysterious  supper  of  our  Lcrd, 
That  meanest  appetites  might  upwivrd  tend. 

2.  Within  a  convent-palace  of  old  Spain, — 

Rich  with  the  gifts  and  monuments  of  kings,— 
Hung  such  a  picture,  said  by  some  to  reign 
The  sovereign  glory  of  those  wondrous  things. 

3.  A  painter  of  far  fame,  in  deep  delight, 

Dwelt  on  each  beauty  he  so  well  discem'd ; 
While,  in  low  tones,  a  gray  Geronomite 
This  answer  to  his  ecstasy  returned : 

4t.  "  Stranger  1  I  have  received  my  daily  meal 
In  this  good  company  now  threescore  years ; 
And  thou,  whoe'er  thou  art,  canst  hardly  feel 
How  time  these  lifeless  images  endears. 

6.  "  Lifeless  I  ah,  no,  while  in  my  heart  are  stored 
Sad  memories  of  my  brethren  dead  and  gone, 


62 


THE  THIBD  READEB. 

Familiar  places  vacant  round  oar  board, 
And  still  that  silent  sapper  lasting  on  I 

6.  "  While  I  review  my  youth, — what  I  was  then,- 
What  I  am  now,  and  ye,  beloved  ones  all, — 
It  seems  as  if  these  were  the  living  men, 
And  we  the  color'd  shadows  on  the  wall'' 


21.   Anecdotes  of  Dogs. 


Eeen'ness,  sharpness. 

Lit'er-a-turb,  learning,  ac- 
quaintance with  books. 

Sa-gac'i-tv,  quick  discernment 
in  animals. 


Civ'iL-izED,    reclaimed    from 

barbarism. 
Do-mis-ti-ca'tion,  the  act  of 

making  tame. 
Em-phat'ic,  forcible. 


j 

!  f 

1! 


THE  dog  stands  to  man  in  the  relation  both  of  a  valuable 
servant  and  an  engaging  companion.  In  many  employ- 
ments, especially  those  of  shepherds  and  herdsmen,  he  performs 
servicesi  of  great  importance,  such  as  could  not  be  supplied 
without  him.    In  those  sports  of  the  field,  such  as  hunting  and 


!i<l 


^iNECDOTES  OF  DOOS. 


63 


1! 


f  i 


shooting,  which  many  persons  pursue  with  snch  eagerness,  the 
assistance  of  the  dog  is  essential  to  success. 

2.  By  the  keenness  of  scent  he  discovers  the  game,  and  by 
his  swiftness  of  foot  he  runs  it  down.  There  is  no  period  of 
time  recorded  by  history  in  which  we  do  not  find  the  dog  the 
friend  and  the  servant  of  man ;  nor  is  there  any  literature 
which  does  not  contain  some  tribute  to  his  faithfuhiess  and 
sagacity.    •-  ./,  ■ 

3.  The  savage,  roaming  over  the  pathless  wilderness,  and 
dependent  upon  the  animals  in  the  forest  and  the  fish  in  the 
streams  for  his  daily  food ;  and  the  civilized  man,  dwelling  in 
a  comfortable  house  in  a  town  or  village,  agr^e  in  the  attach- 
ment they  feel  for  then*  four-footed  friends.  Many  men  of 
great  eminence  in  literature  and  science  have  been  remarkable 
for  their  fondness  for  dogs ;  and  more  than  one  poet  has  sung 
the  praises  of  particular  specimens  of  the  race. 

4.  Sir  Walter  Scott  was  strongly  attached  to  them,  ana 
had  one  or  more'  of  them  about  him  at  all  times  during  his 
life.'Cln  one  of  his  works  he  thus  speaks  of  them:  "The 
Almighty,  who  gave  the  dog  to  be  the  companion  of  our 
pleasures  and  our  toils,,  has  invested  him  with  a  nature  noble 
and  incapable  of  deceit.  He  forgets  neither  friend  nor  foe ; 
remembers,  and  with  accuracy,  both  benefit  and  injury. 

5.  "He  has  a  share  of  man's  intelligence,  but  no  share  of 
man's  falsehood.  You  may  bribe  a  soldier  to  slay  a  man  with 
his  sWord,  or  a  witness  to  take  life  by  false  accusation,  but 
you  cannot  make  a  dog  tear  his  benefactor.  He  is  the  friend 
of  man,  save  when  man  justly  incurs  his  enmity/' 

,^^  6.  A  long  course  of  domestication,  and  peculiar  modes  of 
training  and  rearing,  have  divided  the  canine  race  into  nearly 
a  hundred  varieties ;  many  of  which  show  marked  difference  in 
size  and  appearance.  The  savage  bulldog  seems  hardly  to 
belong  to  the  same  race  as  the  delicate  lapdog,  that  sleeps  on 
the  rug,  and  is  washed  and  combed  by  its  fair  mistress  almost 
as  carefully  as  an  infant. 

7.  The  swift  and  slim  greyhound  looks  very  little  like  the 
sturdy  and  square-built  mastiff.  But  there  are  certain  traits 
of  «hara«ter,  whith,  in  a  greater  or  leas  degree,  are  commim 


issm 


64 


THB  THIBD  BEADER. 


to  all  the  kinds.  Sagacity,  docilitj,  gratitade,  u  capacity 
to  receive  instruction,  and  attachment  to  his  master's  person, 
are  qualities  which  belong  to  the  whole  race.  Many  anecdotes 
are  to  be  found  in  books  which  prove  the  vurtues  and  intelli- 
'gence  of  the  dog,  from  which  we  have  made  a  selection  for  the 
entertainment  of  our  young  readers. 

8.  Many  instances  have  been  recorded  in  which  persons 
have  been  saved  from  drowning  by  dogs,  especially  by  those 
of  the  Newfoundland  breed,  which  have  a  natural  love  of  the 
water.  A  vessel  was  once  driven  on  the  beach  by  a  storm  in 
the  county  of  Kent,  in  England.  Eight  men  were  calling  for 
help,  but  not  a  boat  could  be  got  off  to  their  assistance. 

9.  At  length  a  gentleman  came  on  the  beach  accompanied 
by  his  Newfoundland  dog.  He  directed  the  attention  of  the 
noble  animal  to  the  vessel,  and  put  a  short  stick  into  his 
mouth.  The  intelligent  and  courageous  dog  at  once  under- 
stood his  meaning,  and  sprang  into  the  sea,  fighting  his  way 
through  the  foaming  waves.  He  could  not,  however,  get 
close  enough  to  the  vessel  to  deUver  that  with  which  he  was 
charged,  but  the  crew  joyfully  made  fast  a  rope  to  another 
piece  of  wood,  and  threw  it  towards  him. 

10.  The  sagacious  dog  saw  the  whole  business  in  an  instant ; 
he  dropped  his  own  piece,  and  forthwith  seized  that  which 
had  been  cast  to  him ;  and  then,  with  a  degree  of  strength 
and  of  resolution  almost  incredible,  he  dragged  it  through  the 
surge,  and  delivered  it  to  his  master.  By  this  means  a  line  of 
communication  was  formed,  and  every  man  on  board  saved. 

11.  A  person,  while  rowing  a  boat,  pushed  his  Newfound- 
land dog  into  the  stream.  The  animal  followed  the  boat  for 
some  time,  till  probably  finding  himself  fatigued,  he  endeavored 
to  get  into  i%  by  placing  his  feet  on  the  side.  His  owner 
repeatedly  pushed  the  dog  away ;  and  in  one  of  his  efforts  to 
do  so,  he  lost  his  balance  and  fell  into  the  river,  and  would 
probably  have  been  drowned,  had  not  the  affectionate  and 
generous  animal  immediately  seized  and  held  him  above  water 
till  assistance  arrived  from  the  shore. 

12.  A  boatman  once  plunged  into  the  water  to  swim  with 
another  man  for  a  wager.    His  Newfoundland  dog,  mistaking 


ANECDOTES  OV  DOGS. 


the  purpose  and  supposing  that  his  master  was  in  danger, 
plunged  after  him,  and  dragged  him  to  the  shore  by  his  hair, 
to  the  great  diversion  of  the  spectators. 
r"^  13.  Jiior  are  the  good  offices  of  dogs  to  man  displayed  only 
on  the  water.  A  young  man  in  the  north  of  England,  while 
he  was  tending  his  father's  sheep,  had  the  misfortune  to 
fall  and  break  his  leg.  He  was  three  miles  from  home,  in 
an  un&equented  spot,  where  no  one  was  likely  to  approach ; 
evening  was  fast  approaching,  and  he  was  in  great  pain  from 
the  fracture.  Tn  this  dreadful  condition,  he  folded  one  of  his 
gloves  in  a  pocket  handk^chief,  fastened  it  around  the  dog's 
neck,  and  then  ordered  him  home  in  an  emphatic  tone  of  voice. 

14.  The  dog,  convinced  that  something  was  wrong,  ran 
home  with  the  utmost  speed,  and  scratched  with  great  violence 
at  the  door  of  the  house  for  admittance.  The  parents  of  the 
young  man  were  greatly  alarmed  at  his  appearance,  especially 
when  they  had  examined  the  handkerchief  and  its  contents. 
Instantly  concluding  that  some  accident  had  befallen  their  son, 
they  did  not  delay  a  moment  to  go  in  search  of  him.  The 
dog  anxiously  led  the  way,  and  conducted  the  agitated  parents 
to  the  spot,  where  their  suffering  son  was  lying.  Happily,  he 
was  removed  just  at  the  close  of  day,  and  the  necessary  assist- 
ance being  procured,  he  soon  recovered. 

15.  On  one  of  the  roads  leading  from  Switzerland  to  Italy, 
called  the  Pass  of  St.  Bernard,  is  a  convent  situated  at  more 
than  eight  thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  In  the 
winter  time,  when  the  cold  is  intense  and  the  snows  are  deep, 
travellers  are  exposed  to  great  danger ;  and  the  inmates  of  the 
convent,  when  storms  are  raging,  are  in  the  habit  of  going 
abroad  to  assist  such  wayfarers  as  may  need  their  services. 

16.  They  are  accompanied  by  their  dogs,  a  noble  breed  of 
animals,  who  are  called  by  the  name  of  the  convent  where  they 
are  kept.  They  carry  food  and  cordials  fastened  at  theh*  necks, 
and  are  able  to  pass  over  snow-wreaths  too  light  to  bear  the 
weight  of  a  man.  They  are  aided  by  the  acuteness  of  their 
scent  in  finding  the  unfortunate  persons  who  have  been  buried 
In  the  snow,  and  many  men  have  owed  their  lives  to  the  timely 
succor  afforded  by  these  four-footed  friends  of  men. 


66 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


It.  One  of  them,  which  served  the  convent  for  twelve  years, 
is  said  to  have  been  instrumental  in  saving  the  lives  of  forty 
individuals.  He  once  found  a  little  boy,  who  had  become  be- 
numbed by  the  cold,  and  fallen  down  upon  a  wreath  of  snow. 
By  licking  his  hands  and  face,  and  by  his  caresses,  he  induced 
the  little  fellow  to  get  upon  his  back,  and  cling  with  his  arms 
around  his  neck  ;  and  in  this  way  he  brought  him  in  triumph 
to  the  convent. 

18.  This  incident  forms  the  subject  of  a  well-known  picture. 
When  this  dog  died,  his  skin  was  stuffed  and  deposited  in  the 
museum  at  Berne ;  and  the  little  vial  in  which  he  carried  a 
cordial  draught  for  the  exhausted  traveller  still  hangs  about 
his  neck.  How  many  men  have  there  been,  endowed  with 
reason  and  speech,  whose  lives  were  less  useful  than  that  of 
this  noble  dog  I 


22.   The  Burial  of  Sib  John  Moobe. 


Ram'part,  the  wall  of  a  fort- 
ress. 
Mar'tial,  military. 


Ran'dom,  done  without  aun, 

left  to  chance. 
Reck,  care,  mind. 


Do  not  say  ybbraid  for  upbraid. 

1.  lyrOT  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
-1-^  As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried ; 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 

O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  was  buried. 

2.  We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning ; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

3.  No  useless  coffin  inclosed  his  breast, 

Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him, 


THE  BUBIAL  OF  SIB  JOHN  HOOBE. 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  aroond  him. 

4,  Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow  ; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 


67 


6.  We  thought  as  we  hoUow'd  his  narrow  bei, 
And  smooth'd  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow. 


6.  Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone. 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him ; 
But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

*l.  But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 

When  the  clock  toll'd  the  hour  for  retiring ; 


68 


I 


THE  THIBD  READER. 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gnu 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

8.  Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 
We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  hun  alone  m  his  glory. 


23.   I  TRY  TO  BE  Good. 


Vex-a'tion,  cause  of  trouble. 
Dif'fi-cul^ies,   obstacles    in 
,  one's  way. 


Warn'ino,  previous  notice,  a 

caution. 
Ob'sti-na-cy,  perverseness. 


I  TRY  to  be  good,"  said  Emily,  "but  I  have  so  many  vexa- 
tions, that  I  find  it  diJBIcult  to  do  as  I  wish ;  for  whenever 
I  feel  pleased  and  happy,  something  will  happen  to  give  me  a 
heavy  heart."  "  But,  child,"  said  her  mother,  "you  should  rise 
above  these  Kttle  trifles ;  a  sincerely  virtuous  endeavor,  pro- 
ceeding fi'om  right  principles,  enables  one  to  overcome  little 
difiiculties.  It  was  but  last  evening  I  was  reading  a  story  on 
this  very  subject. 

2.  "  It  was  the  confession  of  a  man  who  had  severe  struggles 
with  a  bad  temper.    He  said  that  when  he  was  a  little  child 


1 


-      - 


I  TRY  TO  BE  good; 


69 


I 


a- 

a 
se 
o- 
;Ie 

}Q 


he  was  noted  for  obstinacy,  one  of  the  worst  faults  of  man  or 
child.  He  had  an  indulgent  mother,  who  kmdly  softened  his 
unhappy  hours  by  devising  various  ways  for  his  amusement : 
'  But/  said  he,  '  if  she  did  not  succeed  in  the  plan,  I  was  sure 
to  wear  a  sullen  face.' 

3.  "  But,  to  teach  him  how  unjust  and  insensible  he  was  to 
that  kindness,  his  mother  was  taken  Ul,  and  died.  It  was 
then  he  felt  how  much  he  owed  to  her ;  and  bitter  was  his 
grief  that  he  could  not,  by  future  acts  of  love,  repair  the  un- 
happiness  he  had  caused  her.  But  now  that  her  warning 
voice  could  not  reach  Ifim,  he  was  left  to  go  on  more  unre- 
strained :  '  And,'  said  he,  '  until  I  began  to  see  this  trait  of 
obstinacy  displayed  in  my  own  children,  I  never  began  in 
earnest  to  correct  it  in  myself.' 

4.  "Let  this,  Emily,  be  your  warning,"  said  her  devoted 
mother.  "  The  little  trials  of  life  were  designed  to  answer  the 
same  purpose  in  children,  that  .heavier  trials  are  to  older 
people ;  and  just  in  proportion  as  we  bear  them  now,  shall 
we  be  fitted  to  endure  life's  future  discipline.  It  is  not  a  small 
matter,  if  an  evil  t«mper  is  'permitted  to  be  indulged  under 
every  disappointment. 

5.  "  Do  you  remember,  Emily,  that  ngly-shaped  tree,  that 
yon  desired  the  gardener  to  remove  the  other  day,  because  it 
grew  so  very  crooked ;  and  you  remember  that  he  told  you 
the  reason  of  its  being  so  ill-shaped,  was  because  it  was  not 
pruned  as  it  grew  up." 

6.  "  Yes,  mother,"  said  the  smiling  gu-l ;  "  and  just  so  it 
will  be  with  me :  if  I  do  not  watch  over  jny  evil  temper  now, 
— I  suppose  you  mean  to  say, — that  like  that  tree,  I  shall  be 
deformed  in  mind,  which  you  always  told  me  was  a  much 
greater  blemish  than  a  deformed  body.  I  will  endeavor  to- 
morrow to  be  cheerful  all  day."  "  And  if  you  desire  to  be 
good,"  added  her  mother  "the  virtuous  attempt  will  be  attend- 
ed with  success." 


es 
Id 


70 


J 


THE  THIRD  READER. 


24.   The  Green  Mossy  Bank. 


In'fan-cy,  the  first  period  of 

life. 
Wan'der,  to  rove,  to  ramble. 
Stream,  liinning  water. 


Spray,  water  driven  by  the 

wind. 
Bdt'ter-cup,   a  small  yellow 

flower. 


OH,  my  thoughts  are  away  where  my  infancy  flew, 
Near  the  green  mossy  banks  where  the  buttercups  grew, 
Where  the  bright  silver  fountain  eternally  play'd, 
First  laughing  in  snn^hine,  then  sighing  in  shade. 
There  in  my  childhood,  I've  wander'd  in  play, 
Flinging  up  the  cool  drops  in  a  shower  of  spray, 
Till  my  small  naked  feet  were  all  bathed  in  bright  dew, 
As  I  play'd  on  the  bank  where  the  buttercups  grew. 


2.  How  softly  that  green  bank  sloped  down  from  the  hill, 
To  the  spot  where  the  fountain  grew  suddenly  still  1 
How  cool  was  the  shadow  the  long  branches  gave, 
As  they  hung  from  the  willow  and  dipp'd  in  the  wav«  I 


^'\l 

v] 


ON  THE  BAFTISMAL  YOWS. 


71 


I 


And  then  each  pale  lily  that  slept  on  the  stream, 
Rose  and  fell  with  the  wave  as  if  stirr'd  by  a  dream. 
While  my  home  'mid  the  vine-leaves  rose  soft  on  my  view, 
As  I  play'd  on  the  bank  where  the  buttercups  grew. 

3.  The  beautiful  things  !  how  I  watch'd  them  unfold, 
Till  they  lifted  their  delicate  vases  of  gold. 
Oh  I  never  a  spot  since  those  days  have  I  seen, 
With  leaves  of  such  fi'eshness  and  flowers  of  such  sheen ; 
How  glad  was  my  spirit,  for  then  there  was  nought, 
To  burden  its  wing,  save  some  beautiful  thought. 
Breaking  up  from  its  depths  with  each  wild  wind  that  blew 
O'er  the  green  mossy  bank  where  the  buttercups  grew 

The  paths  I  have  trod,  I  would  quickly  retrace, 

Gould  I  win  back  the  gladness  that  look'd  from  my  face, 

As  I  cool'd  my  warm  lip  in  that  fountain  of  love, 

With  a  spuit  as  gentle  as  that  of  a  dove. 

Could  I  wander  again  where  my  forehead  waa  starr'd. 

With  the  beauty  that  dwelt  in  my  bosom  unmarr'd ; 

And  calm  as  a  child,  in  the  starlight  and  dew. 

Fall  asleep  on  the  bank  where  the  buttercups  grew. 


h 


25.   On  the  Bafiismal  Vows. 


Re-nounced',  rejected. 
Ap-fibm'a-tive,  ratifying. 
Rat'i-fi-ed,  confirmed. 
Fi-del'i-ty,  faithfulness. 
Con'stant-ly,  without  ceasing. 
Pro-fbs'sion,  avowal 


A-pos'ta-st,  renouncing  one's 
faith  or  solemn  promises. 

Pre'cepts,  commandments. 

Thral'dom,  bondage. 

Yi'o-LATE,  to  transgress,  to 
break. 


Give  each  vowel  its  sound.    Do  not  say  'poHaty  for  apottcuy;  fui- 
Seliitf  for  fideUljf ;  itwetsuttily  for  inctisanUy. 

WHEN  presented  to  the  Church  to  receive  holy  baptism, 
we  were  asked  if  we  believed  in  God,  if  we  would  live 
according  to  the  precepts  of  the  go^l,  and  if  we  renounced 


72 


THE  THIKD  BEADElt. 


Vi 


t/ 


with  all  our  heart  the  devil  and  his  pomps,  the  world  and  its 
maxims ;  and  it  was  only  when  a  formal  and  affirmative  answer 
had  been  returned,  that  we  were  admitted  among  the  children 
of  God. 

2.  It  was,  therefore,  in  the  fac3  ot  heaven  and  earth,  in  the 
presence  of  God  and  his  holy  a^k-els,  that  we  promised  to  obey 
the  law  of  Christ,  and  to  practise  it  in  its  fullest  extent. 

3.  It  is  true  we  had  not  the  use  of  reason  at  the  time  of 
our  baptism ;  but  it  was  for  us  and  in  our  name  that  these 
promises  were  made ;  we  have  smce  ratified  them  as  often  as 
we  made  a  public  profession  of  Christianity ;  we  also  confirmed 
them  every  day  by  making  on  ourselves  the  sign  of  the  cross, 
by  reciting  the  Lord's  prayer,  assisting  at  the  holy  sacrifice  of 
the  mass,  and  by  receiving  the  sacraments. 

4.  We  are  not,  therefore,  our  own  property,  but  belong  to 
God, — our  soul,  onr  body,  and  all  are  his.  To  follow  the 
maxims  of  the  world,  to  seek  after  its  vanities,  to  love  the 
pomps  of  the  devil,  to  be  ashamed  of  the  gospel,  would  be  to 
renounce  the  character  of  a  Christian,  violate  our  engagements, 
trample  on  the  blood  of  Jesus  Christ,  outrage  the  Holy  Ghost, 
and  shamefully  expel  him  from  our  hearts. 

6.  Let  us,  then,  never  forget  that  these  vows  are  written  in 
the  book  of  life,  that  God  has  account  of  them  in  heaven, 
and  that  we  shall  be  judged  by  them  at  the  hour  of  death. 
On  our  fidelity  in  fulfilling  them  depends  our  salvation  and  our 
eternal  destiny. 

6.  In  order  to  keep  them  in  our  minds  we  ought  often  to 
renew  them,  and  constantly  to  thank  the  Lord  for  having 
snatched  us  from  the  thraldom  of  the  Evil  One,  and  called  us 
to  the  kingdom  of  his  Son. 

1.  We  read  in  the  history  of  the  Church  that  a  holy  dea- 
con, named  Murrita,  having  answered  at  the  sacred  font  for 
a  young  man  named  Elpiphodorus,  had  the  misfortune  to  see 
him  become  an  apostate  and  a  persecutor  of  the  Christians. 

8.  One  day,  when  he  was  publicly  tormenting  some  Chris- 
tians in  the  midst  of  an  immense  crowd,  the  holy  deacon  sud- 
denly appeared ;  he  had  preserved  the  white  robe  wherewith 
Elpiphodorus  had  been  covered  at  hii  baptism,  and  presentdng 


ih 


THE  LITAl^Y. 


78 


it  to  him,  he  cried  in  a  lond  voice :  "  Behold  the  witness  of 
thine  apostasy ;  this  will  bear  testimony  against  thee  at  the 
judgment-seat  of  God. 

9.  "Look  upon  this  white  garment  wherewith  I  clothed 
thee  at  the  sacred  font ;  it  will  call  for  vengeance  upon  thee, 
and  it  shall  be  changed  into  a  robe  of  fire  to  bum  thee  for  all 
eternity."  The  spectators  were  moved  to  tears  by  this  ad- 
dress, and  Elpiphodorus  withdrew,  covered  with  confusion. 


26.  The  Litany. 


•     -' 


■/ 


Sub'tle,  cunning. 
Se-pul'chral,  relating  to  the 
tomb. 


To  Lurk,  to  lie  in  wait. 
Lit'a-nt,  a  solemn  form  of 
prayer. 

Bead  this  lesson  slowly  and  pronounoe  the  oonsonanta  distinctly. 


1. 


BY  thy  bhrth  and  early  years ; 
By  thy  human  griefs  and  fears ; 
By  thy  fasting  and  distress, 
In  the  lonely  wilderness ; 
By  thy  victory,  in  the  hour 
Of  the  subtle  tempter's  power — 
Jesns  !  look  with  pitying  eye, 
Hear  our  solemn  litany 
4 


u 


THE  THIBD  READER. 


2.  By  the  sympathy  that  wept 

O'er  the  grave  where  Lazarus  slept ; 
By  thy  bitter  tears  that  flowed 
Over  Salem's  lost  abode ; 
By  the  troubled  sigh  that  told 
Treason  lurk'd  within  thy  fold — 
Jesus  I  look  with  pitying  eye, 
Hear  ottr  solemn  litany. 

8.  By  thine  hour  of  dark  despair ; 
By  thme  agony  of  prayer ; 
By  the  purple  robe  of  scorn ; 
By  thy  woundf?,  thy  crown  of  thorn, 
Cross  and  p^jiaioii,  pangs  and  cries ; 
By  tliy  perfect  sacriBce — 
Jesus  !  look  with  pitying  eye, 
Hear  our  solemn  litany. 

4.  By  thy  deep  expiring  groan ; 
By  the  seal'd  sepulchral  stone ; 
By  thy  triumph  o'er  the  grave ; 
By  thy  power  from  death  to  save— 
Mghty  God !  ascended  Lord  I 
To  thy  throne  in  heaven  restored ; 
Prince  and  Saviour  I  hear  the  ay 
Of  our  solemn  litany. 


27.   The  Sign  of  the  Cross. 


I 


Dib-ci'fle,  a  follower,  a  learn- 
er 

Mys'te-bt,  something  nnex- 
plamed. 


Cow'ard-ice,  habitual  timid< 

ity. 
Chest,  the  breast. 
Im-pobt'ant,  momentous. 


] 


Do  not  Bay  perfuiion  for  prqfetdon ;  ben  or  bean  for  hem  (bin) ;  thor 
faith  for  thetr  faith  ;  an  uecomplUh  for  and  acconqdiahj  wUh  the  tiiUmee  qf 
thttnoBwlptorufiihtheaitUtancetf  tkeMbHBoly. 


y 


SIGN  Of  THE  CROSS. 


76 


lid* 


thor 


TO  make  profescdon  of  our  faith  is  one  of  onr  most  essential 
daties,  for  Jesos  Christ  will  not  recognize  as  his  disciples 
those  who  haye  been  ashamed  of  belonging  to  him,  and  shrank 
from  declaring  their  faith  openly. 

2.  One  of  the  best  means  of  showing  that  we  are  Christians, 
glorying  in  that  Me,  is  to  make  religiously  upon  onrselves  the 
augnst  sign  of  the  cross. 

3.  There  are  two  ways  of  making  the  sign  of  the  cross : 
the  first  is  by  making  a  cross  with  the  thnmb  on  the  forehead, 
mouth,  and  bosom  ;  it  is  thus  that  the  priest  makes  it  during 
the  mass,  when  he  be^ns  to  read  the  gospeb,  and  all  the 
faithful  should  do  the  same. 

4.  We  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  the  forehead,  to  show 
that  we  are  Christians,  and  not  ashamed  to  act  as  such ;  on 
the  mouth,  to  testify  that  we  are  ever  ready  to  make  profes- 
sion of  believing  in  God  and  in  Jesus  Christ ;  and  on  the 
breast,  to  show  that  we  love  the  oross  of  Christ,  and  heartify 
bdlieye  what  we  profess. 


te 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


-Ji 


5.  The  second  method  of  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  is  by 
placing  the  right  hand  on  the  forehead,  then  on  the  chest, 
then  on  the  left  shoulder,  and  afterwards  on  the  right,  saying, 
"  In  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy 
Ghost."  f^-^H 

6.  When  making  the  ^gn  of  the  cross  we  profess  the  unity 
of  God  by  saying  these  words  In  the  name,  in  the  singular 
number  ;  the  Trinity  of  persons,  by  naming  each  in  turn  ;  the 
mystery  of  the  Incarnation  and  that  of  the  Redemption  by 
making  the  form  of  the  cross  on  which  the  Son  of  God  made 
man  died  for  us  ;  and  the  mystery  of  grace,  by  carrying  the 
hand  from  the  left  side,  which  is  the  ^gure  of  sin,  to  the  right, 
which  represents  the  grace  merited  for  us  by  Christ.    ,, 

I.  The  words  "In  the  name  of  the  Father,"  signify  again  : 
"I  am  going  to  perform  this  action  by  order  of  the, Most 
Holy  Trinity ;  I  will  obey  it  feithfuUy,  and  accomplish  its 
will ;  I  do  this  in  honor  of  the  Blessed  Trinity,  desiring  to 
render  it  all  the  homage  of  which  I  am  capable. 

8.  "  I  am  about  to  perform  this  action  with  the  assistance  of 
the  Most  Holy  Trinity ;  acknowledging  that  I  citn  do  nothing 
without  the  strength  which  comes  from  the  Father,  .the  grace 
which  the  Son  has  merited  for  me,  and  the  light  which  pro- 
ceeds from  the  Holy  Ghost." 

9.  We  should  not  fail  to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  at  least 
morning  and  evening,  before  and  after  meals,  at  the  beginning 
and  end  of  our  prayers,  and  when  setting  about  any  important 
action ;  it  is  a  great  means  of  drawing  down  upon  ourselves 
and  our  undertakings  the  blessing  of  God. 

10.  We  should  also  make  it,  at  least  in  onr  hearts,  when  we 
find  ourselves  exposed  to  danger  or  temptation,  to  the  end 
that  we  may  be  delivered  there&om,  and  preserved  from 
offending  God.  -' 

II.  A  young  girl  blushed  while  making  the  sign  of  the  cross 
on  an  occasion  when  it  was  usual  to  make  it,  and  that  because 
a  stranger  was  present.  This  was  noticed  by  a  certain  pious 
person,  who  soon  made  her  ashamed  of  her  cowardice,  and 
want  of  love  for  Jesus  Christ. 

12.  "Whatl"  said  he,  "Jesus  was  not  ashamed  to  die  on 


.41X 


U. 


!*• 


f 


««-^' 


n  k, 


THE  THBEE  FRIENDS. 


77 


the  cross  to  redeem  yon,  yet  yoa  blush  to  form  on  jom^elf  the 
augast  sign  of  yonr  redemption  I''  He  added,  "  I  hope  that 
in  future  you  will  glory  in  belonging  to  your  adorable  Master. 
May  the  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Qhost  ble^s  yon,  through  the 
passion  and  death  of  Our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  I " 


28.   The  Thbee  Fbiends. 

Trust,  confidence,  reliance.  I     Wor'thy,  deserving. 
Pris'on,  a  jail.  I     Heed,  care,  attention. 

TRUST  no  Mend  whom  you  have  not  tried.     There  are 
more  of  them  at  the  festive  board  than  at  the  prison  door. 

2.  A  man  had  three  friends ;  two  of  them  he  loved  much, 
but  for  the  third  he  cared  little,  though  he  was  well  worthy 
of  his  affection.  This  man  was  once  summoned  before  tha 
judge  and  strongly  accused  of  a  crime  of  which  he  was  really 
innocent.  "Who  among  you,"  said  he,  "will  go  with  me, 
and  give  evidence  in  my  behalf?  For  I  have  been  accused 
without  cause,  and  the  king  is  angry." 

3.  The  first  of  his  friends  excused  himself  immediately ;  say- 
ing that  he  could  not  go  with  him  on  account  of  other  busi- 
ness. The  second  accompanied  him  to  the  door  of  the  hall 
of  justice ;  there  he  turned  round  and  went  back,  through 
fear  of  the  angry  judge.  The  third,  on  whom  he  had  least 
depended,  went  in,  spoke  for  him,  and  testified  so  fnll^  to  his 
innocence,  that  the  judge  dismissed  him  unharmed. 

4.  Man  has  three  friends  in  this  world,  How  do  they  be- 
have in  the  hour  of  death,  when  God  calls  him  to  judgment  ? 

5.  The  gold,  the  friend  he  loves  best,  leaves  him  first,  and 
does  not  go  with  him.  His  relations  and  friends  attend  him 
to  the  gate  of  the  grave,  and  return  to  their  homes.  The 
third,  of  whom  in  life  he  took  least  heed,  is  represented  by  hii 
good  works.  They  attend  him  to  the  throne  of  the  Judge ; 
they  go  before  him,  plead  for  him,  aud  find  mercy  and  grace 
for  hun. 


76 


THE  THmD  BEADEB. 


29.     SONO  OK  THE  BaILBOAD. 


Brake,  a  place  overgrown 
with  fern,  a  thicket. 

Aq'de-duct,  a  channel  for  car- 
rying water,  supported  by 
some  stracture. 

Mar'oin,  the  water's  edge,  the 
shore. 


Mould,  fine,  soft  earth. 
Goal,  the  point  set  to  arrive 

at,  the  end  of  the  journey. 
Ex-Jt»AN'siON,  the  state  of  being 

expanded  or  stretched  out. 
Cease'less,  without  a  stop  or 

pause. 


^  ti 


1.  npHROUGH  the  mould  and  through  the  clay, 
-L   Through  the  com  and  through  the  hay, 
By  the  margin  of  the  lake. 
O'er  the  river,  through  the  brake, 
O'er  the  bleak  and  dreary  moor. 
On  we  hie  with  screech  and  roar  1 

Splashing  1  flashing  t 

Crashing !  dashing ! 


Over  ridges. 
Gullies,  bridges  I 
By  the  bubbling  rill, 

And  mill — 
Highways,  byways, 

Hollow  hill— 


i 


SONG  OF  THE  RAILROAD. 


79 


ve 

t. 
or 


«  « 


Jamping — bumping — 
Rocking — ^roaring 

Like  forty  thousand  giants  snoring  1 
By  the  lonely  hut  and  mansion, 
By  the  ocean's  wide  expansion — 
Where  the  factory  chimneys  smoke, 
Where  the  foundry  bellows  croak — 
Dash  along ! 
Slash  along  I 
Crash  along ! 
Flash  along  I 
On  !  on  !  with  a  jump, 
And  a  bump, 
And  a  roll ! 
Hies  the  fire-fiend  to  its  destined  goal  I 

3.  Over  moor  and  over  b(^, 
On  we  fly  with  ceaseless  jog  •, 
Every  instant  something  new, 
No  sooner  seen  than  lost  to  view ; 

Now  a  tavern — ^now  a  steeple — 
Now  a  crowd  of  gaping  people — 
Now  a  hollow — now  a  ridge — 
Now  a  crossway — now  a  bridge — 
Grumble,  stumble, 
Rumble,  tumble — 
Church  and  steeple, 
Gapting  people — 
Quick  as  thought  are  lost  to  view  I 
Every  thing  that  eye  can  survey, 
Turns  hurly-burly,  topsy-turvy  ! 
Each  passenger  is  thump'd  and  shaken, 
As  physic  is  when  to  be  taken. 

4.  By  the  foundry,  past  the  forge, 
H'hrough  the  plain,  and  mountain  gorge, 
Where  cathedral  rears  its  head. 
Where  repose  the  silent  dead  I 


w 


THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 


Monmnents  amid  the  grass 

Flit  like  spectres  as  you  pass  ! 

If  to  hail  a  Iriend  inclined — 

Whisk!  whirr  1  ka— swash  1— he's  left  behind  1 

Ramble,  tumble,  all  the  day, 

Thus  we  pass  the  hours  away. 


30.    ViCTORINUS. 


PRO-Fi'ciEN-cr,  advancement, 
improvement  gained. 

Rhet'o-rio,  the  science  of  ora- 
tory. 


Ex-As'pER-ATE,  to.vex,  to  pro- 

voke. 
Ad-min  '  I9-TKR-  ED,   managed, 

supplied. 


Do  not  iAj  pemmmeed  for  pronoutwed;  ptrfeuwn  for  profeuioa;  retpte 
for  the  tanety  </  thej>lace,  for  respect  for  the  tandUy  of  the  place. 

VIOTORINTJS,  a  celebrated  orator,  had  been  professor  of 
rhetoric  at  Rome ;  he  had  passed  his  life  m  tiie  study  of 
the  liberal  sciences,  and  had  attamed  a  great  proficiency  in 
all  of  them.  He  had  read,  examined,  and  explained  almost 
all  the  writings  of  the  ancient  philosophers,  and  had  had  the 
honor  of  instructing  ail  the  most  distingmshed  of  the  Roman 
senators. 

2.  He  had,  in  fine,  followed  his  profession  so  successfully, 
that  a  statue  had  been  erected  to  his  honor  in  a  public  square 
of  Rome,  a  distinction  then  con^dered  the  highest  that  man 
could  attain.  Yet  he  was  still  a  pagui,  an  adorer  of  idols ; 
and  not  only  that,  but  he  employed  all  his  eloquence  in  per- 
suading others  to  adore  them  as  he  did. 

3.  What  extraordinary  grace  did  it  require  to  touch  and 
convert  such  a  heart  I  Behold  the  means  which  God  employed 
in  doing  so.  Yictorinns  began  to  read  the  Holy  Scriptures, 
and  having  for  some  time  applied  himself  to  that  study,  to- 
gether with  other  books  that  explained  the  Christian  religion, 
he  said  one  day  to  St.  Simplician ;  "  I  have  something  to  tell 
you  which  will  interest  you  very  much :  I  am  a  Christian" — 


TIOTOBINUB. 


a  ( 


i. 


"I  do  not  believe  a  word  of  it,"  replied  the  Saint,  "nor  shall 
I  believe  yoa,  antil  I  see  you  in  the  church  where  the  faithful 
are  wont  to  assemble." 

4.  "  What  then,"  exclaimed  Victorinns,  '*  is  it  only  within 
the  inclosure  of  four  walls  that  one  is  a  Christian  ? "  So  it 
went  on  for  some  time,  as  often  as  Victorinns  protested  that 
he  was  a  Christian,  Simplician  made  him  the  same  reply,  and 
the  other  always  put  it  off  with  a  laugh  and  a  jest. 

5.  The  truth  was,  that  he  feared  to  exasperate  his  pagan 
friends,  as  their  anger  and  opposition  would  be  sure  to  crush 
him,  if  once  called  forth,  and  this  risk  he  could  not  bring  him- 
self to  incur. 

6.  But  after  a  time  courage  and  generosity  were  given  him 
from  above  because  of  his  close  application  to  the  study  of 
religion,  and  the  docility  with  which  he  opened  his  heart  to  its 
truths,  and  he  became  convinc^ed  that  it  would  be  an  enormous 
crime  to  blush  for  believing  the  mysteries  of  Jesus  Christ, 
while  appearing  to  glory  in  the  sacrilegious  superstitions  of 
paganism. 

7.  No  sooner  did  he  obtain  this  conviction  than  he  hastened 
to  tell  St.  Simplician,  at  a  time,  too,  when  that  holy  man  was 
least  expecting  him :  "  Let  us  go  to  the  church,"  said  he,  "  I 
am  resolved  to  shorn-  myself  a  Christian,  nor  content  myself 
longer  with  being  one  in  heart."  Simplician,  transported  with 
joy,  immediately  took  him  to  the  church,  and  had  his  name 
entered  on  the  list  of  those  who  demanded  baptism. 

8.  All  the  city  of  Rome  was  struck  with  adnuration  and 
astonishment ;  and  the  hearts  of  the  faithful  were  filled  with 
joy,  because  of  the  celebrity  and  high  reputation  of  that  great 
man.  At  length  the  happy  day  arrived  when  he  was  to  make 
his  profession  of  faith,  in  order  to  be  baptized. 

9.  It  was  then  the  custom  in  the  Roman  church  to  make 

9 

this  profession  in  a  regular  formula  of  words  which  the  cate- 
chumen learned  by  heart,  and  pronounced  aloud  before  all  the 
people.  The  priests,  through  respect,  would  have  waived  this 
custom,  and  permitted  Yictorinus  to  make  his  profession  in 
private,  a  privilege  which  was  sometimes  granted  to  timid  per- 
sons ;  but  Victorinns  declined,  declaring  that  he  would  pro- 


IriWiHti 


82 


THE  THIRD  READER. 


V 


claim  aloud,  in  presence  of  the  whole  assembly,  his  belief  in 
those  doctrines  which  were  to  guide  him  to  endless  happiness. 

10.  No  sooner  had  he  appeared  in  the  tribune  than  a  sudden 
transport  of  joy  seized  all  hearts,  and  his  name  was  echoed 
aloud  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  although  each  one  restrained 
his  joyful  emotion  through  respect  for  the  sanctity  of  the  place 
and  the  sacrament  about  to  be  administered,  yet  all  around 
was  heard  the  murmured  exclamation :  It  is  Victorinus  1  It 
is  Victorinus! 

11.  But  every  sound  was  speedily  hushed,  in  order  to  per- 
mit him  to  speak  ;  whereupon,  he  with  holy  fervor,  repeated 
in  a  clear,  distinct  voice,  his  belief  in  the  truths  which  form 
the  basis  of  our  faith.  Willingly  would  the  people  have  taken 
him  and  carried  him  around  in  triumph,  for  every  heart  over- 
flowed with  the  joy  of  beholding  him  a  Christian. 

12.  This  splendid  conversion  had  great  consequences,  and 
when  St.  Augustine  was  informed  of  it  by  St.  Simplician,  he 
acknowledged  that  he  felt  strongly  moved  to  follow  the  exam- 
ple of  Victorinus  ;  this  intention  he  soon  after  carried  into 
execution  under  the  ministry  of  St.  Ambrose,  to  whom  St. 
Simplician  had  been  a  father  from  his  baptism. 


* 


'.  ri) 


31.    Guardian  Angels. 

Sdb-ser'vi-ent,  serviceable.       I  Em'a-nat-ing,  issuing,  or  flow* 
Way'waud,  unruly,  perverse.    |      ing  from. 

;  i  ;:  Do  not  say  moles  for  moulds. 


1. 


2. 


OH  1  he  may  brave  life's  dangers. 
In  hope  and  not  in  dread, 
Whose  mother's  prayers  are  lighting 

A  halo  round  his  head. 
For  wheresoe'er  he  wander. 

Through  this  cold  world  and  dark, 
There  white-wing'd  angels  follow. 

To  guard  life's  wayward  bark. 
Go,  let  the  scoffer  call  it 

A  shadow  and  a  dream, 


I/':, 


w 


«* 


!» 


.  GUARDIAN  ANGELS. 

Those  meek,  subservient  spirits, 
Are  nearer  than  we  deem. » 

Tliink  not  they  visit  only 
The  bright,  enraptured  eye, 

Of  some  pure  sainted  martyr, 
Prepared  and  glad  to  die ; 


83 


^: 


h 


ii 


I'  -I  ^ 


\v 


■3 


Or  thpt  the  poet's  fancy, 
Or  the  painter's  magic  skill, 

Creates  a  dream  of  beauty. 
And  moulds  o.  work  at  will. 


u 


7 


THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 

3.  They  Hve,  they  wander  round  ns. 

Soft  resting  on  the  cload, 
Although  to  human  vision, 

The  sight  be  disallow'd. 
They  are  to  the  Almighty 

What  rays  are  to  the  sun, 
An  emanating  essence, 

From  the  great  supernal  One. 

4.  They  bend  for  prayers  to  listen, 

They  weep  to  witness  crimes. 
They  watch  for  holy  moments, 

Good  thoughts,  repentant  tunes ; 
They  cheer  the  meek  and  humble, 

They  heal  the  broken  heart, 
They  teach  the  wavering  spirit 

From  earthly  ties  to  part. 

5.  Unseen  they  dwell  among  us, 

As  when  they  watch  below; 
In  spiritual  anguish, 

The  sepulchre  of  woe. 
And  when  we  pray,  though  feeble 

Our  orisons  may  be, 
They  then  are  our  companions, 

Who  pray  eternally. 


M 


32.   The  Resurbection  op  the  Body. 


Moul'der,  to  rot. 
Es-tab'lish-ed,  fixed. 
Rb-sus'ci-tate,  to  bring  to  life. 
Om-nip'o^ence,  unlimited  pow- 
er. 


Im-pas'si-ble,  not  subject  to 

suffering. 
In-con-ceiv'a-blb,  not  to  be 

conceived. 
Oor-rup'tion,  decay. 


Give  0  its  proper  sound.     Do  not  say  coruerlation  for  coMolation; 
Vgeihsr  for  together ;  V  create  for  to  create. 

IT  is  an  article  of  faith  that  our  body  shall  one  day  rise  again. 
All  men  shall  die,  and  they  shall  rise  again  with  the  same 
bodies  they  had  in  this  life.    The  body,  kid  in  the  earth,  shall 


1\ 


THE  RESUBltECnON  OF  THE  BODY. 


86 


*  ■ 


.  I 


to 
be 

on; 

in. 
me 
aU 


\ 


go  through  the  process  of  corraption,  and  moulder  into  dust ; 
but  what  changes  soever  it  may  have  undergone,  its  ashes  shall 
one  day  be  gathered  together  and  reanimated  by  the  breath 
of  God.  Life  is  but  a  dream,  and  death  a  sleep  ;  but  the 
resurrection  will  be  the  beginning  of  a  life  which  shall  never 
end. 

2.  "The  day  will  come/'  said  Jesns  Christ,  "when  all  who 
are  in  the  grave  shall  hear  the  voice  of  the  Son  of  God,  and 
they  who  have  done  good  works,  shall  rise  and  live  forever  ; 
but  they  who  have  done  evil  shall  rise  to  be  condemned." 
"  In  a  moment,"  says  St.  Paul,  '*  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  at 
the  sound  of  the  last  trumpet,  the  dead  shall  arise  to  die  no 
more." 

3.  That  resurrection  shall  be  general ;  all  shall  arise,  the 
great  and  the  small,  the  just  and  the  wicked,  they  who  have 
lived  before  us  from  the  beginning  of  the  world,  they  who  are 
now  on  the  earth,  they  who. shall  come  after  ns,  all  shall  die, 
and  rise  again  at  the  last  day  with  the  same  bodies  they  had 
in  this  life. 

4.  It  is  God  who  will  work  this  prodigy  by  his  Omnipotence. 
As  he  haa  drawn  all  things  from  nothing  by  his  will  alone, 
so  shall  he  with  as  much  ease,  gather  together  onr  scattered 
members,  and  reunite  them  with  our  souls.  It  i;;  not  more 
difficult  for  the  Almighty  to  reanimate  oi^r  bodie:^  man  it  was 
for  him  to  create  them.  Nay,  we  have  under  our  eyes,  every 
year,  a  figure  of  this  resurrection. 

5.  Are  not  the  trees,  as  it  were,  dead  during  the  winter, 
and  do  they  not  appear  to  resuscitate  in  the  spring  ?  The 
grain  and  other  seed  which  is  cast  into  the  earth,  decays  there- 
in, only  to  come  forth  again  fairer  than  at  first :  it  is  the  same 
with  our  body ;  which,  like  a  seed,  is  laid  in  the  earth  for  a 
season,  to  come  forth  again  full  of  life. 

6.  The  bodies  of  the  just  shall  nOt  then  be  solid,  heavy,  and 
corruptible,  as  they  uow^  are  ;  but  they  shall  shine  like  the  sun, 
and  shall  be  free  from  all  sorts  of  pain  and  inconvenience,  full 
of  strength  and  agility,  such  as  was  the  body  of  our  Lord 
after  his  resurrection, 

1.  The  just,  who  are  his  children,  sanctified  by  his  grace, 


m 


THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 


i 


>-' 


'i 


hf: 


united  and  made  one  with  him  by  faith,  shall  also  rise  like 
unto  himself ;  Jesus  Christ  shall  transform  their  mean  and 
abject  bodies,  and  render  them  like  unto  to  his  own — ^glorious 
and  impassible. 

8.  The  body,  which  has  had  its  share  in  the  good  done  by 
the  soul  while  they  were  joined  together,  shall  be  a  shaisr  also 
in  its  happiness.  The  wicked  shall,  indeed,  rise  agaiu,  but 
their  bodies  shall  have  none  of  these  glorious  qualities  ;  they 
shall  arise,  but  only  to  be  given  up  to  torments  endless  in  their 
duration,  and  inconceivable  in  their  greatness. 

9.  "  All  the  multitude  of  those  who  sleep  in  the  dust  of  the 
earth,"  says  one  of  the  prophets,  "shall  awake,  some  for  life 
eternal,  and  others  for  endless  ignominy  and  disgrace." 

What  a  spectacle  shall  then  meet  our  eyes  1  what  sentiments 
will  arise  in  our  hearts,  when  we  hear  the  sound  of  the  trum- 
pet, and  when  that  dreadful  voice  shall  echo  over  the  earth, 
"Arise,  ye  dead  1  and  come  to  ijidgment!" — when  we  shpll 
see  all  mankind  assemble,  without  any  other  distinction  than 
that  made  by  their  own  works  1 

10.  In  the  reign  of  Antiochus,  the  seven  young  Machabees 
and  their  mother  generously  suffered  the  most  cruel  torments 
rather  than  violate  the  law  of  God,  because  they  hop(d  in 
the  resurrection.  The  first  had  his  tongue  cut  out  and  the 
skin  torn  off  his  head,  and  he  being  still  alive  he  was  cast  into 
a  caldron  over  a  huge  ftre.  The  second,  when  expbing,  said 
to  the  king :  "  You  now  put  us  to  death  ?  but  the  Ruler  of 
the  world  shall  one  day  raise  us  up  to  life  everlasting." 

11.  The  third  said  with  confidence  :  "I  have  received  these 
members  from  Heav(!n,  but  I  now  hold  them  as  nothing  in 
defence  of  the  laws  of  God,  because  I  hope  that  they  shall 
be  one  day  restored  r,o  me."  The  fourth  spoke  in  these  terms : 
"  It  is  better  for  us  to  bo  slain  for  obeying  God,  than  to  pre- 
serve our  lives  by  disobeying  him ;  we  hope  that  in  the  resur- 
rection, God  will  render  glorious  these  bodies  which  we  re- 
ceived from  him." 

12.  The  others  manifested  similar  courage  and  fortitude. 
Nevertheless,  the  youngest  still  remaiped  ;  and  Antiochus  tried 
to  shake  his  purpose  by  caresses  and  the  hope  of  reward  )  he 


\ 


} 


A  STORY  OF  A  MONK. 


8T 


also  sent  him  to  his  mother,  hoping  that  she  would  persaade 
him  to  sacrifice  to  the  idols 

13.  But  that  generous  mother  said  to  her  son :  "  Look  up 
to  heaven  1  raise  thine  eyes  to  God,  who  hath  created  all 
things,  and  thou  shalt  not  fear  these  torments,  but  will  loUow 
thy  brethren  to  death  1 "  Antiochus,  more  than  ever  enraged, 
poured  out  all  his  wrath  on  the  boy,  and  caused  vbe  mother 
to  undergo  the  same  torments  as  her  sons. 


33.   A  Story  op  a  Monk. 


Monk,  a  member  of  a  religious 
community  of  meii. 

Clois'teb,  a  convent  or  mon- 
astery inhabited  by  nuns  or 
monks. 

Ab'bot,  the  head  of  a  commu- 
nity of  monks. 


Stu'di-ous,  given  to  books  or 

learning. 
Chron'i-cle,    to    record,    to 

write  down. 
Oru'ci-fix,  an  image  of  oui; 

Saviour's  body  fastened  to 

a  cross. 


\ 


MANY  years  ago,  there  dwelt  in  a  cloister  a  monk 
named  Urban,  who  was  remarkable  for  an  earnest  and 
devout  frame  of  mind  beyond  his  fellows,  and  was  therefore 
intrusted  with  the  key  of  the  convent  library.     He  was  a 


88 


THE  THIBD  READER. 


P-: 


m 
k 


carefal  guardian  of  its  contents,  and,  besides,  a  studious  reader 
of  its  learned  and  sacred  volumes.  One  day  he  read  in  the 
Epistles  of  St.  Peter  the  words,  "  One  day  is  with  the  Lord 
as  a  thousand  years,  and  a  thousand  years  as  one  day ;''  and 
this  saying  seemed  impossible  in  his  eyes,  so  that  he  spent 
many  an  hour  in  musing  over  it. 

2.  Then  one  morning  it  happened  that  the  monk  descended 
from  the  library  into  the  cloister  garden,  and  there  he  saw  a 
littl:  biid  perched  on  the  bough  of  a  tree,  singing  sweetly,  like 
a  nightingale.  The  bird  did  not  move  as  the  monk  approached 
her,  til-  he  came  quite  close,  and  then  she  flew  to  another  bough, 
and  again  another,  as  the  monk  pursued  her.    Still  singing  the 

.iC  sweet  song,  the  nightingale  flew  on ;  and  the  monk,  en- 
trajK'fd  by  the  sound,  followed  her  out  of  the  garden  into  the 
wifle  V,  orid. 

3.  At  last  he  stopped,  and  turne  i  back  to  the  cloister ;  but 
every  thing  seemed  changed  to  him.  Every  thing  had  become 
larger,  more  beautiful,  and  older, — the  buildings,  the  garden ; 
and  in  the  place  of  the  low,  humble  cloister  church,  a  lofty 
minster  with  three  towers  reared  its  head  to  the  sky.  TLis 
seemed  very  strange  to  the  monk,  indeed  marvellous ;  but  he 
walked  on  to  the  cloister  gate  and  timidly  rang  the  bell.  A 
porter  entirely  unknown  to  him  answered  his  summons,  and 
drew  back  in  amazement  when  he  saw  the  monk. 

4.  The  latter  went  in,  and  wandered  through  the  church, 
gazing  with  astonishment  on  memorial  stones  which  he  never 
remembered  to  have  seen  before.  Presently  the  brethren  of 
the  cloister  entered  the  church :  but  all  retreated  when  they 
saw  the  strange  figure  of  the  i  '.nk.  The  abbot  only  (but  not 
his  abbot)  stopped,  and  stretching  a  crucifix  ^  (^fore  him,  ex- 
claimed, "  In  the  name  of  Christ,  who  art  thou,  spirit  or  mor- 
tal ?  And  what  dost  thou  seek  here,  coming  from  the  dead 
among  us,  the  living  ?  " 

6.  The  monk,  trembling  and  tottering  like  an  old  man,  cast 
his  eyes  to  the  ground,  and  for  the  first  time  became  aware 
that  a  .ong  silvery  beard  descended  from  his  chin  over  his 
girdle,  to  which  was  still  suspended  the  key  of  the  fibrary. 
To  the  monks  around  the  stranger  seemed  some  marvellous 


I 

1 


) 


THE  DUATOBT  SCHOLAIL 


89 


appearance ;  and,  with  a  mixture  of  awe  and  admiration,  they 
led  him  to  the  chair  of  the  abbot.  There  he  gave  to  a  young 
monk  the  key  of  the  library,  who  opened  it,  and  brought  out  a 
chronicle  wherein  it  was  written,  that  three  hundred  years  ago 
the  monk  Urban  had  disappeared,  and  no  one  knew  whither 
he  had  gone.  _ 

6.  "Ah,  bu'd  of  the  forest,  was  it  then  thy  song?"  said  the 
monk  Urban,  with  a  sigh.  "I  followed  thee  for  scarce  three 
minutes,  listemng  to  thy  notes,  and  yet  three  hundred  years 
hare  passed  away !  Thou  hast  sung  to  me  the  song  of  eter- 
nity which  I  could  never  before  learn.  Now  I  know  it ;  and, 
dust  myself,  I  pray  to  God  kneeling  in  the  dust.'^  With  these 
words  he  sank  to  the  ground,  and  his  spirit  ascended  to  heaven. 


34.   The  Dilatobt  Scholar. 


To  Lin'ger,  to  delay,  to  be  dil- 
atory. 
To  Pro-test',  to  declare. 


Satch'el,  a  little  bag  nsed  by 

schoolboys. 
At'las,  a  book  of  maps. 


Pronounce  distinctly.    Do  not  e&y  breakin  for  breaking;  nothin  for 
nothing  ;  playm  iov  flaying. 

1.  fXSL  I  where  is  my  hat?  it  is  take.^  away, 
v/  And  my  shoestrings  are  all  in  a  kiot ! 

I  can't  find  a  thmg  where  it  should  b(3  to-day, 
Though  I've  hunted  in  every  spot. 

2.  My  slate  and  my  pencil  nowhere  can  be  found, 

Though  I  placed  them  as  safe  as  could  be ; 
While  my  books  and  my  maps  are  all  scatter'd  around, 
And  hop  about  just  like  a  flea. 

8.  Do,  Rachel,  just  look  for  my  atlas  up-stairs ; 
My  Virgil  is  somewhere  there,  too :; 
And,  sister,  brush  down  these  troublenome  hairs, — 
And,  brother,  just  fasten  my  shoe. 


mammssmmBimmmim 


90 


THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 


u '!'; 


4.  And,  mother,  beg  father  to  write  an  excuse ; 
But  stop — he  will  only  say  "No," 
And  go  on  with  a  smile  and  keep  reading  the  newS| 
While  every  thing  bothers  me  so. 


mii 


5.  My  satchel  is  heavy  and  ready  to  fall ; 

This  old  pop-gun  is  breaking  my  map ; 
ni  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  pop-gun  or  ball,- 
There's  no  playing  for  such  a  poor  chap  1 

6.  The  town-clock  will  strike  in  a  minute,  I  fear ; 

Then  away  to  the  foot  I  must  sink : — 
There,  look  at  my  history,  tumbled  down  here  I 
And  my  algebra  cover'd  with  ink  I 


i 


35.   Spanish  Evening  Hymn. 
Wea'ry.  tired,  fatigued.    Watch-fire,  a  fire  used  as  a  signal 

Sound  the  aspirated  h.    Do  not  say  sailor  zim  for  saihr'i  hymn  ;  from 
iz  for  from  his;  fountun  sealing  for  fount  unsealing. 

1,  IIJ OTHER  1  now  let  prayer  and  music, 
-"J-  Meet  in  love  on  earth  and  sea  I 
Now,  sweet  mother !  may  the  weary. 
Turn  from  this  cold  world  to  thee  I 


CHRIST  BTCLLINa  THE  TEMPEST. 

2.  From  the  wide  and  restless  waters, 

Hear  the  sailor's  hymn  arise ; 
From  his  watch-fire  'mid  the  mountains, 
Lo  1  to  thee  the  shepherd  cries  1 

3.  Yet,  when  thus  fiill  hearts  find  voices, 

If  o'erburden'd  souls  there  be, 
Dark  and  silent  in  their  anguish, 
Aid  those  captires,  set  them  free  I 

4.  Touch  them,  every  fount  unsealing. 

Where  the  frozen  tears  lie  deep ; 
Thou,  the  mother  of  all  sorrows, 
Aid,  oh  I  aid  to  pray  and  weep  I 


91 


36.   Christ  STmLma  the  Tempest. 

"But  the  ship  was  now  in  the  midst  of  the  sea,  tossed  with 
waves ;  for  the  wind  was  contrarj." — Matthew  xiv.  24. 


i 


Bil'lows,  waves. 
Breath'less,  out  of  breath. 


Right'e-ous,  just,  upright. 
Man'dates,  commands. 


Pronounce  each  word  distinctly.    Do  not  say  rolUn  'igh  an'  dark  for 
rcUi$iff  high  and  dark. 

1.  XnEAB  was  within  the  tossing  bark, 
J-    When  stormy  winds  grew  loud ; 
And  waves  came  rolling  high  and  dark, 

And  the  tall*  mast  was  bow'd. 

2.  And  men  stood  breathless  in  their  dread, 

And  baffled  in  their  skill — 
But  One  was  there,  who  rose  and  said 
Tothe  wUdsea,  "BestUU" 

3.  And  the  wind  ceased — it  ceased  I — that  word 

Pass'd  through  the  gloomy  sky  ; 
The  troubled  billows  knew  their  Lord, 
And  sank  beneath  his  eye. 


y 


.— i/ 


■  irniwsi 


.atmum 


smm. 


tSiSi, 


THE  THIRD  HEADER. 

4.  And  slumber  settled  on  the  deep, 

And  silence  on  the  blast, 
As  when  the  righteous  fall  asleep, 
When  death's  fierce  throes  are  past. 

5.  Thou  that  didst  rule  the  angry  hour, 

And  tame  the  tempest's  mood — 
Oh  !  send  thy  spirit  forth  m  power, 
O'er  our  dark  souls  to  brood  ! 

6.  Thou  that  didst  bow  the  billow's  pride  1 

Thy  mandates  to  fulfil  — 
Speak,  speak,  to  passion's  raging  tide, 
Speak  and  say — "  Peace,  be  still  1" 


37.    Holiday  Children. 


I 


j''^ 


Christ'has,  the  day  our  fca- 
viour  was  bom. 

Mu-se'um,  a  coilectio.it  of  ca- 
riosities. 


CoAx'iNG-LY,  flatteringly. 
Scutch'eon,    the  ground  on 

which  a  coat  of  arms  is 

painted. 


ONE  of  the  most  pleasing  sights  at  this  festive  season,  is  the 
group  of  boys  and  girls  returned  from  school.  Go  where 
you  will,  a  cluster  of  their  joyous,  chubby  faces  presents  them- 
selves to  our  notice.  In  the  streets,  or  elsewhere,  our  elbows 
are  constantly  assailed  by  some  eager  urchui  whose  eyes  just 
peep  beneath  to  get  a  nearer  view. 

2.  I  am  more  delighted  in  watching  the  vivacious  workings 
of  their  ingenuous  countenances  at  jbhese  Christmas  shows, 
than  at  the  sights  themselves.  Z,^  .v'; 

3.  From  the  first  joyous  buzzafl,  and  loud-blown  horns  which 
announce  their  arrivnl,  to  the  faint  attempts  at  similar  mirth 
on  then*  return,  I  am  interested  in  these  youngsters. 

4.  Observe  the  line  of  chaises  with  their  swarm-like  loads 
hurrymg  to  tender  and  exulting  parents,  the  sickly  to  be  cher- 


.M 


// 


I 


HOLIDAY  CHILDBEN. 


93 


'mr  bauble  does 

e  hand,  his 
ts,  while  am- 


ished,  the  strong  to  be  amused ;  in  a  few  mornings  yon  shall 
see  them,  new  clothes,  warm  gloves,  gathering  around  their 
mother  at  every  toy-shop,  claiming  the  promised  bat,  hoop, 
top,  or  marbles ;  mark  her  kind  smile  at  their  ecstasies ;  her 
prudent  shake  of  the  head  at  their  numerous  demands ;  her 
gradual  yielding  as  they  coaxingly  drag  her  in ;  her  patience 
with  their  whims  and  clamor  while  they  turn  and  toss  over 
the  playthings,  as  now  a  sword,  and  no  a  hoop  is  theu* 
choice,  and,  like  their  elders,  the  possessi' 
but  make:  them  sigh  for  another. 

5.  View  the  fond  father,  his  pet  little 
boys  walking  before,  on  whom  his  proud 
bitious  views  float  over  his  mind  for  them,  and  make  him  but 
half  attentive  to  their  repeated  inquiries ;  while  at  the  museum 
or  the  picture-gallery,  his  explanations  are  interrupted  by  the 
rapture  c»f  discovering  that  his  children  are  already  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  different  subjects  exhibited. 

6.  At  no  season  of  the  yt.ir  are  their  holidays  so  replete 
with  pleasures ;  the  expected  Christmas-bcx  from  grand-papa 
and  grand-mamma ;  plum-padding  and  snap-dragon,  with 
blindman's  buflF  and  forfeits ;  perhaps  to  witness  a  juvenile 
play  rehearsed  and  ranted ;  galantee-show  and  drawing  for 
twelfth-cake ;  besides  Christmas  gambols  in  abundance,  new 
and  old. 

7.  Evtsn  the  poor  charity-boy  at  this  season  feels  a  transient 
glow  of  cheerfulness,  as  with  pale  blue  face,  frost-nipped  hands, 
and  thin,  scant  clothes,  from  door  to  door  he  timidly  displays 
the  unblotted  scutcheon  of  his  graphic  talents,  and  feels  that 
the  penc(;  bestowed  are  his  own,  and  that  for  once  in  his  life 
he  may  taste  the  often-desired  tart,  or  spin  a  top  which  no  one 
can  snatch  from  hJm  in  capricious  tyranny. 


-^ 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


1.1 


m  IM  12.2 

s;  1^  12.0 


m 


|1.25  ,  u 

114 

< 

6"     — 

> 

Photographic 

Sciences 

CarporatiGn 


'i^ 


A 


V 


33  WIST  MAIN  STRHT 

WIUTIR,N.Y.  I4SM 

<7I*)«72-4S03 


4^ 


v\ 


;\ 


Ik 


\ 


PART  SECOND. 


A  WORD   TO   TEAOHEBS. 

We  have  deemed  it  best  to  discontinne  the  spelling  and 
defining  lessons  at  the  commencement  of  the  articles,  but  we 
cannot  too  strongly  recommend  all  teachers  to  devote  a  por* 
tion  of  every  day  to  the  orthography  and  definition  of  a 
certain  number  of  words  contained  in  the  reading  lesson. 

Let  the  pupils  spell  and  ei^lain  the  words  at  the  head  of 
each  lesson  before  commencing  to  read.  After  the  lesson  is 
over,  let  the  teacher  direct  them  to  close  their  books,  and 
1^11  and  define  every  word  he  may  select,  It  may,  then,  be 
asked :  how  are  children  to  learn  the  meaning  of  the  words  7 
We  answer,  by  being  accustomed  to  give  in  their  ovm  lan- 
guage, theur  own  ideas  of  every  unusual  or  important  word 
which  occurs  in  their  reading  leaaon  ;  the  teacher  of  course 
correcting  them  when  wrong,  uid  explaining,  when  necessary, 
the  proper  meaning  of  the  term  in  question ;  or  referring  them 
for  this  mformation  to  their  dictionaries,  which  dionld  always 
be  at  hand  for  this  their  Intimate  use. 

Questions  on  the  subject  of  the  lesson  should  also  be  care- 
fully continued. 


rtif-j' 


THE  DBXAH  OF  THE  OBUBADEB. 


B5 


1.   The  Dbeaic  of  the  Cbubader. 


ly* 


0tmmmm>r«'-  <- 


96  THE  THIRD  RFiADliiB. 

8.  That  cry  went  forth  through  Europe's  reahmi^ 
From  one  end  to  the  other ; 
The  call  was  like  the  thunder's  voice, 
That  nought  on  earth  can  smother. 

4.  And  France's  fairest  chiyahy 
Did  mount  at  that  loud  call ; 
From  Normandy  unto  Provence, 
None  tarried  in  his  hall. 

6.  Some  came  from  the  fast-flowmg  Loire 
And  others  from  the  Rhone, 
And  some  whose  castles  were  upon 
The  banks  of  the  ij^aronne. 

6.  One  common  badge  they  all  do  wear, 
A  proud  and  holy  crest, 
A  Mood-red  cross,  emblazoned  bright 
On  each  left  arm  and  breast. 

1.  Their  banner  is  that  blood-red  cross. 
Upraised  as  for  a  sign. 
And  animating  all  the  host 
With  thoughts  of  Palestine.     , 

8.  And  day  by  day  they  fought  their  w;f^ 

Still  onwards  from  the  sea, 
And  charged  upon  the  Infidol 
With  dauntless  constancy^ 

9.  And  'mid  that  host  of  incble  knights 

Who  ttom  their  homes  had  gone. 
There  was  not  one  more  worthy  than 
Ansehn  of  Bibeaupont,. 


1» 


-   ( 


imtmitUmliimm. 


mmmPimmm 


J 


THE  DBEAIC  OF  THE  CBUBADEB. 


n 


} 


2.   The  Dbeam  of  the  Cbusadeb — continued. 

1.  One  early  morn,  the  son  as  jet 
Was  scarcely  in  the  sky, 
He  b^g'd  the  priest  to  shrive  hun  then, 
And  make  him  fit  to  die. 

■    2.  He  wish'd  to  tAke  the  sacrament    • 
As  soon  as  ho  was  shriven, 
That  he  might  dare  to  meet  his  God 
With  hopes  to  be  foigivoL 

8.  Now  all  did' marvel  at  his  words, 
For  he  was  fresh  and  well ; 
And  why  he  deem'd  that  he  shonli?  die, 
No  mortal  man  could  telL 

4.  But  good  Sir  Anselm  with  gravehmiflR  (ff'yf^^'^ 

Thus  spake— "  My  rao&  is  run4 
Ere  yonder  son  shall  set  again, 
I  (fe's  joomey  will  be  done. 

5.  My  friend,  Ingolram  of  St.  Pol, 

Who  feU  at  Ma'ra's  fight, 

And  whom  we  all  lamented  so^ 

I've  seen  in  the  past  night. 

6.  This  very  night  he  came  to  me, 

And  irtood  beeide  my  bed ; 
rTwas  not  a  dream — I  was  awake, 
And  heard  each  word  he  said. 

1.  I  asked  him,  'Whither  comest  thou, 
And  why  so  bright  and  fair  ? 
For  thou  wert  kill'd  at  Maara, 
And  we  interred  thee  there/ 

8.  He  was  so  bright  and  beantiftil. 
And  mUd  each  placid  feature ; 

6 


J 


HBii 


THE  TUIKD  READER. 

He  was  not  like  a  mortal  man. 
Bat  some  i^ngelic  creatnre. 

9.  He  answer'd  me, '  I  am  so  fair, 
And  beaatifol  and  bright, 
Becaose  mj  dwelling  shmeth  so 
Witii  all-resplendent  light. 

10.  And  this  to  me  my  God  hath  given. 

Because  I  served  him  well ; 
For  laying  down  my  life  for  him 
Against  the  InfideL 

11.  And  it  hath  been  reveai'd  to  me, 

Hat  such  a  dweUmg-place, 
Bat  brighter  still,  awaiteth  thee, 
Throagh  Qod's  great  sovereign  grace. 

iiu  And  I  an^Gome  to  bring  to  thee 
Tbeffb  n(£ngs  glad  and  sweet ; 
Thy  dwelling  it  is  wondrons  fair — 
To  morrow  there  we  meet  I' " 

13.  Again  they  went  to  fight  their  way 

Still  onwards  from  the  sea  \ 
They  charged  npon  the  Infidd 
With  wonted  constancy. 

14.  The  Paynim  men  advance  again. 

To  drive  them  to  the  sea, 
Bat  on  them  rash'd  the  red-cross  men 
With  all  their  chivalry. 

16.  And  when  the  day's  ha^  strife  was  o'er. 
The  san  went  dowp  apace, 
The  good  Sir  Anselm  he  was  miss'd 
At  his  accostom'd  place. 

16.  They  soaght  him  on  the  battle-field, 
Thej  found  him  'midst  the  dead : 
A  stone,  by  some  huge  engine  harPd, 
Had  stmck  him  on  the  head. 


THE  lord's  FSAJESU 


99 


4^ 


3.   The  Lobd's  Prates. 

OTTR  Lord  has  himself  taught  as  what  we  are  to  beg  €f 
God,  and  the  order  in  which  it  is  to  be  asked.  He  has 
even  vonchsafed  to  draw  up  the  petition  which  we  are  to  pre- 
sent to  the  Father  in  his  name,  and  to  leave  as  an  excellent 
form  of  prayer,  which  is  thence  called  TAe  Lord's  Prayer. 
"Jesus  Christ,"  says  St.  Cyprian,  "among  other  salutary 
advices  and  precepts  which  he  hath  ^ven  to  his  people  in 
order  to  guide  them  to  salvaticm,  has  prescribed  a  formula  oj 
prayer,  to  the  end  that  we  ma^  be  the  more  readily  heard  by 
the  Father,  by  addressing  him  in  the  very  words  which  his 
Son  hath  taught  us. 

2.  ''Let  us,  therefore,  pray,'*  adds  this  holy  doctor,  "as 
our  master  and  our  God  hath  directed  us ;  that  prayer  must  be 
pleasmg  to  God  which  comes  from  himself,  and  strikes  his  ea,r 
through  the  words  of  Christ ;  let  the  Father  recognize  in  our 
prayer  the  words  of  his  divine  Son. 

8. ."  Smce  Jesus  Christ  is  our  Advocate  with  his  Father,  let 


■Bi 


100 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


US  make  nse  of  the  verj  words  of  our  Mediator ;  he  assnrer 
us  that  the  Father  will  grant  whatever  is  asked  in  his  name  ; 
how  mach  more  willingly  if  asked,  not  only  in  his  name,  but 
in  his  own  very  words  V'  The  Church,  accordingly,  makes 
continual  nse  of  that  divine  prayer ;  by  it  she  begins  and  ends 
all  her  offices ;  she  introduces  it  solemnly  in  the  holy  sacri- 
fice of  the  mass.  The  fUthfiil  should  recite  it  daily,  morning 
and  evening,  and  recall  it  often  to  their  minds  through  the 
course  of  the  day. 

4.  The  Lord's  Prayer  is  comtXMed  of  a  short  preface,  and 
seven  petitions  or  requests^  of  which  the  three  first  relate  to 
Qod,  and  the  other  foor  concern  ourselves ;  it  contains  all 
that  we  can  desire  and  ask  of  God ;  it  is  the  rule  by  which 
we  are  to  form  our  sentiments  and  our  desires.  We  may, 
indeed,  make  use  of  other  words  in  our  prayers,  but  we  are 
to  ask  nothing  of  God  save  what  is  contained  in  this  model ; 
any  request  that  is  not  consistent  with  it  would  be  unworthy 
a  Christian,  and  <$oald  not  be  agreeable  to  God. 

5.  The  pre&ce  consists  of  these  words :  "  Our  Father^  who 
art  in  heaoen;  "  Jesqs  Christ  has  thrown  into  these  few  words 
all  that  is  most  capable  of  engaging  God  to  hear  us,  and  of 
inspiring  within  ourselves  sentiments  of  respect,  confidence, 
and  love. 

6.  We  call  God  our  Father,  for  so  has  Christ  instructed 
US  to  do.  God  is  indeed  our  father  by  creation,  since  he  has 
given  us  life,  and  formed  us  to  his  own  image  ;  he  is  still  more 
our  father  by  the  grace  of  our  baptism,  seeing  that  in  Bap- 
tism he  adopted  us  as  his  children  ia  Christ  Jesus.  "  Con- 
sider," says  the  Apostle  St.  John,  "what  love  the  Father  has 
had  for  us,  since  he  would  have  us  called  his  children,  and 
really  be  bo\"  "Because  ye  are  children,''  adds  St.  Paul, 
"God  has  sent  into  your  hearts  the  spirit  of  his  Son,  cry- 
ing 'My, Father,  Mxf  Father P"  Oh,  name  fall  of  sweet- 
ness and  delight  1  what  love,  what  gratitude,  a^d  what  con- 
fidence should  it  excite  in  your  heart  I 

7.  K  it  be  true  that  God  is  yojur  Father,  can  you  fear  that 
your  prayer  will  be  rejected  when  you  remind  him  of  a  name 
by  which  his  takes  pleasure  in  hearing  os  address  him?  What 


il- 


LEGEND  OF  THE  INFANT  JESUS. 


101 


I. 


does  he  not  grant  to  a  child  who  prays  to  him,  after  he  has 
received  him  into  the  number  of  his  children  by  a  grace  which 
preceded  his  prayers  and  desires. 

8.  Fear  only  that  by  your  disobedience  yon  may  render 
yourself  unworthy  to  be  called  the  child  of  God ;  that  alone 
can  obstruct  the  flow  df  his  grace  and  the  effect  of  your 
prayers.  Each  of  us  says,  when  addressing  God:  "Our 
Fatfier,"  and  not  My  Father,  because  haring  all  the  same 
Father,  and  expecting  from  him  the  same  inheritance,  we 
are  not  only  to  pray  for  ourselves,  but  for  all  the  faithful, 
who  are  oilr  brethren.  By  that  we  understand  that  it  is  not 
in  our  own  name  w^  pray,  but  in  that  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  in 
nnion  with  the  whole  body  of  his  Church,  whose  members  we 
are. 

9.  We  add :  "  Whi^^rt  in  heaven,"  for  although  God  is 
everywhere  in  his  immenn;|y,  we  nevertheless  consider  heaven 

.as  the  throne  of  his  glory ;  it  is  in  heaven  that  he  puts  forth 
all  his  magnificence,  and  i^veals  himself,  fully  to  his  elect 
without  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  to  obscure  his  brightness. 
It  is  to  heaven  that  we  ourselves  are  called ;  heaven  is  our 
country,  and  the  inheritance  destined  for  us  by  our  Father. 
When  we  kneel,  then,  in  prayer,  let  us  raise  our  thoughts  and 
our  desires  to  heaven ;  let  us  unite  with  th^  society  of  blessed 
spirits,  and  excite  in  our  hearts  the  hope  and  the  desire  of 
possessing  God. 


4.  Legend  of  the  Infant  JEStna. 


1.  nOME,  children,  all  whose  joy  it  is 
^  To  serve  at  holy  mass, 
And.hMff  what  once,  in  days  of  fiedth, 

In  England  came  to  pass  I 

2.  It  chanced  a  priest  was  journeying 

Through  dark  and  gloomy  wood, 
And  there,  where  few  came  passing  by, 
A  ImAflj  chapel  stood. 


102 


THE  TUIBD  READEB. 

8.  He  stay'd  his  feet,  that  pilgrim  priest, 
His  morning  mass  to  say, 
And  pat  the  sacred  vestments  on 
Which  near  the  altar  lay. 

4.  Bat  who  shall  serve  the  holy  mass 

For  all  is  dlent  here  ? 
He  kneels,  and  there  in  patience  waits 
The  peasant's  hoar  of  prayer. 

5.  When  lo  1  a  child  of  wondroos  grace, 

Before  the  altar  steals, 
And  down  beade  the  lowly  priest, 
The  infant  beanty  kneels. 

6.  He  serves  the  mass ;  his  voice  is  swee^ 

Like  distant  masic  low. 
With  downcast  eye  and  ready  hand, 
And  footfall  hash'd  and  slow. 

T.  "  Et  verbom  caro  factum  est," 
He  lingers  tiU  he  hears, 
Then  taming  he  to  Mary's  shrine^ 
In^lory  disappears. 

8.  So  roand  the  altar,  children  dear. 
Press  gladly  in  God's  name, 
For  once  to  serve  at  holy  mass, 
The  Infant  Jesas  came. 


5.  The  Do-NormNGS. 

THE  Do-Nothings  are  a  very  nameroas  family :  some  mem- 
bers of  it  are  foand  in  all  parts  of  the  coontry ;  and  there 
are  very  few  schools  in  which  some  of  them  are  not  in  attend- 
ance as  papils.  They  are  known  by  their  slow  and  listless 
steps,  th«r  antidy  appearance,  and  the  want  of  animation  and 


w 


THE  DO-NOTHINGS. 


103 


Interest  in  their  faces.    They  do  not  do  any  thing,  whether 
woric  or  play,  with  a  hearty  g^ood-will. 

2.  Their  hair  is  apt  to  be  in  disorder ;  their  hands  and  faces 
are  not  always  clean ;  their  clothes  look  as  if  they  had  been 
half  pnt  on.  They  are  always  in  a  hnrry,  and  yet  always 
behindhand.  They  are  sometimes  absent  from  school,  and 
often  tardy ;  but  for  every  neglect  of  dnty  they  always  ha?e 
some  sort  of  an  excuse. 

8.  A  girl  of  this  family  gets  np  in  the  morning  late,  dresses 
herself  in  a  harry,  and  comes  down-stairs  a  little  ont  of  humor 
from  the  feeling  that  she  has  begun  the  day  wrong.  The 
family  breakfast  is  oret,  and  she  is  obliged  to  take  hers  alone ; 
which  does  not  improve  her  temper.  She  knows  that  she  has 
a  French  lesson  to  learn  before  school ;  but  she  is  attracted 
by  a  new  picture-book  which  had  been  brought  home  the  day 
before  for  one  of  her  little  brothers,  and  she  takes  it  up,  mean- 
ing only  to  look  over  the  pictures.  But  she  becomes  interest- 
ed in  the  story,  turns  over  one  leaf  after  another,  and  at  last 
nine  o'clock  strikes  before  she  is  aware  of  it 

4.  She  huddles  on  her  shawl  and  bonnet,  and  hastens  to 
school  as  fast  as  possible ;  but  she  is  late  in  spite  of  her  hurry, 
and  is  marked  for  tardiness.  It  takes  her  some  time  to  get 
seated  at  her  desk,  and  to  recover  from  the  heat  and  flurry  of 
comii^  to  school  so  fast.  She  at  first  proposes  to  learn  the 
French  lesson,  which  she  ought  to  have  done  at  home ;  but 
after  studying  a  few  moments,  she  finds  some  leaves  missing 
from  her  dictionary.  She  tries  to  borrow  one  from  a  neigh- 
bor, but  in  vain ;  so  she  becomes  discouraged,  and  thinks  she 
will  do  a  few  sums  in  arithmetic. 

6.  So  she  takes  out  her  slate,  and  b^ms  to  wash  it ;  Ependr 
ing  much  more  time  in  this  process  than  is  necessary.  She 
tries  a  sum  and  cannot  do  it,  and  thinks  it  the  fault  of  the 
pencil.  So  she  proceeds  to  sharpen  that  with  great  delibera- 
tion, making  everybody  around  her  uneasy  with  the  disagree- 
able, grating  sound.  When  this  operation  is  over,  she  looks 
at  the  clock,  and  sees  that  it  will  soon  be  time  to  recite  in 
geography,  of  which  she  has  not  learned  any  thing.  * 

6.  Bx6  jmiis  up  her  iffitte,  pentefl,  and  arithmetic^  and  tftkoi 


104 


THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 


!i 


oat  her  geographj  and  atlas.  Bj  the  time  these  are  opened 
and  spread  before  her,  she  hears  a  band  of  music  in  the 
street.  Her  seat  is  near  the  window,  and  she  wastes  some 
precioos  minutes  in  looking  at  the  soldiers  as  they  pass  by. 
She  has  hardly  made  any  progress  in  her  study  of  geography 
when  she  is  called  up  to  recite.  She  knows  very  little  of  her 
lesson,  gives  wrong  answers  to  the  questions  put  to  her,  and 
gets  a  bad  mark. 

7.  Soon  after  this,  the  class  in  French  to  which  she  belongs 
goes  up  to  recite.  This  lesson  she  has  only  half  learned,  and 
she  blonders  sadly  when  called  upon  to  answer.  She  goes  back 
to  her  desk  in  an  unhappy  state  of  mind,  and  takes  up  her 
arithmetic  once  more.  But  she  feels  dissatisfied  with  herself, 
and  cannot  fix  her  attention  upon  her  task.  She  comes  to  the 
conclusion  that  she  has  got  a  headache,  which  is  a  very  com- 
mon excuse  with  her,  and  that  she  cannot  study.  So  she  puts 
a  cover  upon  one  of  her  books,  and  writes  a  note  to  one  of  her 
young  friends  about  going  to  a  concert ;  and  when  this  is  over 
the  bell  for  dismissal  rings. 

8.  And  this  half  day  may  be  taken  as  a  fair  sample  of  the 
whole  school-life  of  Miss  Do-Nothing.  It  is  a  long  succession 
of  lessons  half  learnt,  of  sums  half  done,  of  blotted  copy- 
books, of  absences  and  tardinesses,  of  wasted  hours  and  neg- 
lected opportunities.  Most  of  the  annoyance  which  teachers 
suffer  in  the  discharge  of  their  duties,  comes  from  boys  and 
girls  of  this  family.  They  have  two  seemingly  opposite  traits : 
they  are.  always  idle  and  yet  always  restless.  They  move 
about  on  their  seats,  and  lean  upon  their  desks  in  a  great 
variety  of  postures.  They  talk  with  their  fingers ;  and  keep 
up  a  constant  whispering  and  buzzing  with  their  lips,  which 
disturbs  scholars  and  teachers  alike. 

9.  The  boys  are  very  expert  in  catching  flies,  and  moulding 
pieces  of  pap^  into  the  shape  of  boats  Or  cocked  hats.  They 
draw  figures  upon  their  slates,  and  scribble  upon  the  fly-leaves 
of  their  books.  In  summer  they  are  afflicted  with  a  constant 
thirst,  and  in  winter  their  feet  and  hands  are  always  cold. 
Both  boys  and  girls  are  apt  to  be  troubled  with  drowsiness  in 
ttie  daytime ;  and  yet  they  ar^  very  reluctant  to  go  to  bed 


HKALINa  THE  DAUOBTEB  OF  JAIRU8. 


105 


\^. 


when  the  proper  hoar  comes.  They  ar«  fond  of  laying  the 
fault  of  their  own  indolenoe  upon  the  weather ;  they  would 
have  learned  their  lesson  if  it  had  not  been  so  hot,  so  cold,  or 
so  rainy. 

10.  There  is  one  remarkable  peculiarity  about  this  family : 
every  boy  and  girl  that  chooses  can  leave  it,  and  Join  the  Do- 
Somethings  ;  the  members  of  which  are  alwayr  glad  to  wel- 
come deserted  from  the  Do-Nothings.  The  boys  and  girls  of 
the  Do-Something  family  are  always  busy,  always  cheerful; 
working  heartily  when  tiiey  work,  and  playing  heartily  when 
they  play.  They  arei  fieat  in  their  appearance,  and  punctual 
in  attendance  upon  school ;  every  thing  it  done  in  proper  order, 
and  yet  nothing  is  harried ;  they  are  the  Joy  of  tiidr  parents, 
and  the  delight  of  their  teachers. 

11.  My  yonng  fH^uods  into  whose  hands  this  book  may  fall, 
to  >hich  of  these  two  fiumlies  do  yon  beloi^?  Remember 
tliat  the  usefulness  and  happiness  of  yonr  whole  Ures  depends 
up(Hi  the  answer  to  this  question.  No  one  can  be.  truly  hnippy 
who  is  not  usefhl ;  and  no  one  can  be  Oieftd  who  is  idle,  oare- 
^  and  negligent. 


I 


6.   EEEi^Lda  TBB  Baughibi  tfp  Jairub. 

1.  TJIBBSHI4T  the  oool  fereath  of  the  zoning  eve 
J?  SUOb  lihfOagli  the  lattice,  and  the  cfying  girl 
¥^t  a  npon  her  fHiehead    She  ha4  Iain 
Sinoe  i|to  hot  no<»t»de  in  a  breathless  trance — 
Her  thhi,  pale  ili^^  clasped  within  the  hand 
Of  the  heart;-broken  Ruler,  and  her  breast. 
Like  the  dead  marble,  white  and  motionless. 

2.  The  shadow  of  a  leaf  lay  on  her  lips. 
And,  as  it  stirr'd  with  the  awak'nmg  wind, 
The  dark  lids  lifted  from  her  languid  eyes, 
And  her  slight  fingers  moved,  and  heavily 
She  tum'd  upon  her  pillow.    He  was  there — ^ 
The  same  loved  tireless  watcher,  and  she  look'd 
Into  his  face  until  her  sight  grew  dim 


!  ii 


106  THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 

With  the  fast-falling  tears ;  and,  with  a  sigh    ■ 
Of  tremalons  weakness  murmuring  his  name,     ' 
She  gently  drew  his  hand  upon  her  lips, 
And  kiss'd  it  as  she  wept.    The  old  man  sunk 
<    Upon  his  knees,  and  in  the  drapery 

Of  the  rich  curtains  buried  up  his  face ;  ' 
And  when  the  twilight  fell,  the  silken  folds 
Sturr'd  with  his  prayer,  but  the  slight  hand  he  held 


•} 


Had  ceased  its  pressure — and  he  could  not  hear, 
In  the  dead,  utter  silence,  that  a  breath 
Came  through  her  nostrils — and  her  temples  gave 
To  his  nice  touch  no  pulse — and,  at  her  mouth, 
He  held  the  lightest  curl  that  on  her  neck 
Lay  with  a  mocking  beauty,  and  bis  gaze 
Ached  with  iti  deathly  stillness. 


HEALma  THE  DAUaHTEB  OF  JAIBUS. 


107 


<^ 


w 


*  9)1  *  *  *  * 

3.  All  was  still. 

The  echoing  yestibnle  gave  back  the  slide 
Of  their  loose  sandals,  and  the  arrowy  beam 
Of  moonlight,  slanting  to  the  marble  floor, 
Lay  like  a  spell  of  silence  in  the  rooms. 
As  Jairus  led  them  on.    With  hushing  steps 
He  trod  the  winding  stah* ;  but  e'er  he  touch'd 
The  lachet,  from  within  a  whisper  came, 
"  Trouble  the  Master  not— for  she  is  dead !" 
And  his  faint  l^and  fell  neryeless  at  his  side, 
And  his  steps  falter'd,  and  bis  broken  voice 
Choked  in  its  utterance ;— but  a  gentle  hculd 
Was  laid  upon  his  arm,  and  in  bis  ear 
The  Saviomr's  voice  sank  thrillingly  and  low« 
''  She  is  not  dead — but  deepethP 

•4.  Like  a  form 

Of  mP>tchl9BB  sculpture  in  her  sleep  she  lay — 
The  linei)  vesture  folded  on  her  breast, 
And  oyer  it  her  white  transparent  hands, 
The  blood  still  rosy  m.  their  tapering  nails. 
A  line  of  pearl  ran  through  her  parted  lips, 
And  in  her  postrils  spiritually  thin. 
The  breathing  curve  was  mockingly  like  life ; 
And  round  beneath  the  faintly-tinted  skin 
Ran  the  light  branches  of  the  azure  veins ; 
And  on  her  cheek  the  jet  lash  overlay. 
Matching  the  arches  penpil'd  on  her  brow. 

6.  Her  hair  had  been  unbound,  and  falling  loose 
Upon  her  pillow,  hid  her  small  round  ears 
In  curls  of  glossy  blackness,  and  about 
Her  polish'd  neck,  scarce  touching  it,  they  hung 
Like  airy  shadows  floating  as  they  slept. 
*Twas  heavenly  beautiful.    The  Saviour  raised 
Her  hand  from  o£f  her  bosom,  and  spread  out 
The  snowy  fingers  in  his  palm,  and  said, 
"Maiden/  Arise/" — and  suddenly  a  flush 


■IMHi 


'j;i!^ 


^^mfi 


108  THE  THIBD  BEADBB. 

Shot  o'er  her  forehead,  and  along  her  lips 
And  through  her  cheek  the  rallied  color  ran ; 
And  the  still  outline  of  her  graceful  form 
Stirr'd  in  the  linen  vesture ;  and  she  dasp'd 
The  Saviour's  hand,  and  fixing  her  dark  eyes 
Full  on  his  beaming  countenance — ^abosb  1 


7.  St.  PhHiTP  Nebi  and  the  Touts. 

ST.  Philip  Neri,  as  old  readings  say, 
Met  a  young  stranger  in  Rome's  streets  one  day ; 
And  being  ever  courteously  inclined 
To  give  young  folks  a  sober  turn  of  mind. 
He  fell  into  discourse  with  him ;  and  thus 
The  dialogue  they  held  comes  down  to  us. 

/SS(.  Tell  me  what  brings  you,  gentle  youth,  to  Romef 

Y.  To  make  myself  a  scholar,  sir,  I  come. 

Si.  And,  when  you  are  one,  what  do  you  intend  7   . 

T.  To  be  a  priest,  I  hope,  sir,  in  the  end. 

St.  Suppose  it  is  so — what  have  you  next  in  view  ? 

Y.  That  I  may  get  to  be  a  canon  too. 

1^.  Well ;  and  how  then  ? 

Y.  Why,  then,  for  aught  I  know, 

I  may  be  made  a  bishop. 

St.  Be  it  so — 

What  then? 

Y.  Why,  cardinal's  a  high  degree— 

And  y«t  my  lot  it  possibly  may  be. 

St.  Suppose  it  was,  what  then  ? 

Y.  Why,  who  can  say 

But  I've,  a  chance  of  being  pope  one  day  ? 

St,  Well,  having  worn  the  mitre  and  red  hat, 
And  triple  crown  what  follows  after  that  ? 

Y.  Nay,  there  is  nothing  fhrther,  to  be  sure 
Upon  this  earth  that  wishing  can  procure ; 
When  I've  enjoy'd  a  dignity  so  high. 
As  long  as  Qod  shall  please,  then,  I  must  die. 


mimmm 


mm 


OONFIBICATION. 


109 


8t.  What,  must  jon  die,  fond  yonth  ?  and  at  the  best 
Bat  wish,  and  hope,  and  may  be  all  the  rest  I 
Take  my  advice — whatever  may  betide. 
For  that  which  must  be,  first  of  all  provide  ; 
Then  think  of  that  which  may  be,  and  indeed, 
When  well  prepared,  who  knows  what  may  succeed  7 
But  yon  may  be,  as  you  are  pleased  to  hope, 
Priest,  canon,  bii^op,  cardinal,  and  pope. 


I  i 


I 


8.   Confirmation. 

OUR  young  readers  have  learned  from  their  little  catechism, 
that  confirmation  is  the  sacrament  by  which  they  are  ele- 
vated to  the  dignity  of  soldiers  of  Jesus  Christ ;  that,  as  by 
baptism  they  were  made  children  of  God,  so  by  confirmation 
their  names  are  inscribed  in  the  army  of  the  faithful  foQowers 
of  our  divine  Lord,  and  they  receive  strength  to  battle  against 
sin,  the  world,  and  the  devil,  which  they  had  so  solemnly  re- 
nounced at  the  baptismal  font. 

2.  Confirmation  is  conferred  by  a  bishop,  who  first  imposes 
his  hands  on  those  to  be  confirmed,  invoking  upon  them  the 
Holy  Ghost,  with  his  sevenfold  gifts ;  he  then  signs  the  fore- 
head of  each  with  chrism  in  the  form  of  the  cross,  saying  at 
the  same  time :  "I  sign  thee  with  the  sign  of  the  cross ;  I 
confirm  thee  with  the  chrism  of  salvation,  in  the  name  of  the 
Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost.    Amen," 

3.  The  bishop  concludes  the  ceremony  by  giving  the  person 
confirmed  a  slight  blow  on  the  cheek,  to  signify  that  as  fol- 
lowers of  Jesus  Christ,  we  must  bear  trials  and  persecutions 
for  his  sake. 

4.  The  chrism  used  in  confirmation,  is  an  ointment  made  of 
the  oil  of  cloves  and  balm.  The  oil  signifies  the  effect  of  this 
holy  sacrament,  namely,  spiritual  strength  and  purity  of  heart, 
and  preservation  from  the  rust  of  sin ;  and  the  sweetness  of 
balm,  the  odor  of  a  good  and  virtuous  life. 

6.  Confirmation  can  only  be  received  once,  hence  it  is  a 


^\s^ 


mm 


no 


THE  THIBD  EEADEB. 


great  misfortune  not  to  receive  it  with  the  proper  dispositions. 
Formerly  it  was  the  custom  to  confirm  children  immediately 
after  baptism,  but  now  it  is  generally  delayed  until  after  they 
have  made  their  first  communion.  It  is  not  a  sacrament  abso- 
lutely necessary  for  salvation,  but  it  would  be  a  grievous  sin  to' 
omit  receiving  it  through  contempt  or  neglect. 

6.  Children  ought  to  look  forward  with  a  longing  desire  to 
the  moment  when  they  shall  have  the  happiness  to  receive  this 
holy  sacrament,  and  daily  ask  of  Almighty  God  the  grace  to 
receive  it  worthily,  and  as  often  resolve  to  live  up  to  the  obli- 
gations it  imposes,  when  they  shall  have  received  it. 


T 


1    \ 


»<  i 


9.   BiBDs  IN  Summer. 

1.  TTOW  pleasant  the  life  of  a  bird  must  be^ 
-tl  Flitting  about  in  each  leafy  tree ; 

In  the  leafy  trees  so  broad  and  tall, 

Like  a  green  and  beautiful  palace  hall, 

With  its  airy  chambers,  light  and  boon,'*' 

That  open  to  sun,  and  stars,  and  moon ; 

That  open  unto  the  bright  blue  sky. 

And  the  firoUcsome  winds  as  they  wander  by ! 

2.  They  have  left  their  nests  on  the  forest  bough ; 
Those  homes  of  delight  they  need  not  now  , 
And  the  young  and  the  old  they  wander  out, 

■  And  traverse  their  green  world  round  about  j 
And  hark  !  at  the  top  of  this  leafy  hall. 
How  one  to  the  other  in  love  they  call  I 
"  Come  up  I  come  up  1"  they  seem  to  say, 
"Where  the  topmost  twigs  in  the  breezes  sway. 

8.  "  Come  up,  come  up  I  for  the  world  is  fair 

Where  the  merry  leaves  dance  in  the  summer  air." 

*£oon,  pleaiant. 


BIRDS  m  BX7MMEB. 


lU 


[)n& 
kely 
hey 
bso- 
1  to' 

3  to 
this 
I  to 
>bli- 


'* 


\'. 


And  the  birds  below  give  back  the  cry, 
"We  come,  we  come  to  the  branches  high." 
How  pleasant  the  lives  of  the  birds  most  be, 
Living  in  love  in  a  leafy  tree  1 
And  away  through  the  air  what  joy  to  go, 
And  to  look  on  the  green,  bright  earth  below  1 


4.  How  pleasant  the  life  of  a  bird  must  be, 
Skimming  about  on  the  breezy  sea ; 
Cresting  the  billows  like  silvery  foam, 
Then  wheeling  away  to  its  cliff*built  home  I 
What  joy  it  must  be  to  sail,  upborne 

By  a  strong,  free  wing,  through  the  rosy  mom  I 

To  meet  the  young  sun  face  to  face. 

And  pierce  like  a  shaft  the  boundless  space ; — 

5.  To  pass  through  the  bowers  of  the  silver  cloud ; 
To  sing  in  the  thunder  halls  aloud ; 


\ 


1 


112  THE  THIRD  READER. 

To  spread  out  the  wings  for  a  wild,  free  flight 
With  the  upper-cloud  winds, — Oh,  what  delight  I 
Oh,  what  would  I  give,  like  a  bird,  to  go 
Right  on  through  the  arch  of  the  sun-lit  bow, 
And  see  how  the  water-drops  are  kiss'd 
Into  green,  and  yellow,  and  amethyst  I 

6.  How  pleasant  the  life  of  a  bird  must  be, 
Wherever  it  listeth  there  to  flee ; 
To  go  when  a  joyful  fancy  caUs, 
Dashing  adown  'mong  the  waterfalls ; 
Then  to  wheel  about  with  their  mates  at  play, 
Above,  and  b^low,  and  among  Ihe  spmy, 
Hither  and  tiiither,  with  screams  as  wild 
As  the  kraghing  mirtii  of  a  rosy  diild  1 


7.'  What  joy  ^' mutt  be,  like  a  living  breeze, 
To  flutter  abdiot  Wd  the  flowering  trees'; 

^  ligfatiy  to  soar,  and  to  see  beneath 
Hie  wastes  of  the  blossonung  purple  heathy 

^  And  the  yellow  fufze,  like  fields  of  gold, 
That  gladden'd  some^iiy  r^on  old  1 
On  mountain  tops,  on  the  billowy  sea, 
On  the  leafy  stems  of  the  forest  tree. 
How  pleasant  the  life  of  a  bird  must  be  I 


10.   The  Children  and  the  Infant  Jesus. 

AT  tl^e  time  that  the  celebrated  Egidius  was  provincial  of 
Spain,  he  gave  the  habit  of  the  order  to  a  young  Gascon 
named  Bernard,  who  was  received  into  the  convent  of  Santa- 
rem,  and  became  distinguished  among  that  saintly  community 
for  the  holy  simplicity  of  his  life. 

2.  The  circumstances  attending  his  death,  attested  by  al- 
most all  the  writers  on  the  history  of  the  order,  are  of  peculiar 
beauty.    Bernard  filled  the  office  of  sacristan  in  the  convent 


\      . 


I 


1 


THE  OHILDBEN  AND  'fSE  INFANT  JESUS. 


113 


alof 
iscon 
antA- 
unity 

)y  al- 
!uliar 
avent 


of  Santarem ;  an  office,  the  exercise  of  which  was  pecnlisrly 
delightful  to  him,  from  the  many  opportunities  it  gave  him  of 
indulging  his  devotion  unseen  by  any  one  but  his  Lord,  whom 
he  loved  to  honor  by  a  reverent  care  of  the  altar  and  every 
thing  belonging  to  the  Divine  mysteries.  Besides  this  employ- 
ment, his  spare  time  was  occupied  in  the  education  of  two 
children,  the  sons  of  a  neighboring  gentleman,  who  sent  them 
every  day  to  the  convent,  where  they  remained  until  evening, 
only  sleeping  at  their  father's  house. 

3.  These  two  boys  were  permitted*  to  wear  the  novices' 
habit  of  the  Friars-Preachers,  being  probably  destined  for  the 
order,  although  not  as  yet  received  into  the  community ;  and 
theur  innocence  and  goodness  of  heart  had  rendered  them  pe- 
culiarly dear  to  Blessed  Bernard.  It  was  his  custom,  when 
busy  in  the  sacristy,  to  allow  them  to  remain  in  a  chapel,  then 
dedicated  to  the  Holy  Kings,  on  the  right  of  the  high  altar, 
where  they  usfed  to  sit  on  the  altar-steps,  reading  or  writing 
their  exercises ;  spending  their  tune  happily  until  their  master's 
return.  Here  also  they  were  accustomed  to  spread  out  the 
dinners  which  they  brought  with  them  from  home,  which  they 
took  together  in  the  same  place,  as  soon  as  they  had  finished 
their  daily  lessons. 

4.  On  the  altar  of  this  chapel,  which  was  seldom  used  for 
the  purpose  of  saying  mass,  there  was  an  image  of  the  Blessed 
Yirgm,  holding  her  Divine  Son  in  her  arms ;  and  the  two 
children  came  to  look  on  the  Holy  Infant  almost  as  a  com- 
panion, and  were  wont  to  talk  to  him,  as  he  seemed  to  look 
down  on  them  from  his  mother's  arms,  with  the  simple  fa- 
miliarity of  their  age.  One  day,  as  they  thus  sat  on  the  altar< 
steps,  one  of  them  raised  his  eyes  to  the  image  of  the  little 
Jesus  that  was  just  above  him,  and  said,  "  Beautiful  child, 
how  is  it  yon  never  take  any  dinner  as  we  do,  but  always  re- 
main without  moving  all  day  long?  Gome  down  and  eat  some 
dinner  with  us, — we  will  give  it  to  you  with  all  our  hearts." 

5.  And  it  pleased  God  to  reward  the  innocence  and  simple 
faith  of  the  children  by  a  wonderful  miracle';  for  the  carved 
form  of  the  holy  child  became  radiant  with  life,  and  coming 
4owii  from  his  holy  mother's  arms,  he  sat  with  them  on  the 


lU 


THE  THIBD  BEADER. 


I 


grqnnd  before  tbe  altar,  and  took  some  of  tbeir  dinner  with 
them.  Nor  need  we  wonder  at  so  great  a  condescension,  re* 
membering  how  he  came  uninvited  to  be  a  gnest  with  Zacchens 
who  was  a  sinner,  and  that  the  two  whom  he  now  consented 
to  treat  as  his  hosts,  were  clothed  in  that  pure  robe  of  bap- 
tismal innocence  which  makes  us  worthy  to  receive  him  under 
our  roof. 

6.  Now  this  happened  more  than  once,  so  that  the  neglected 
chapel  became  to  these  two  children  full  of  the  joy  of  heaven ; 
and  by  daily  converse  with  their  Divine  Lord  they  grew  in  such 
fervent  love  towards  him,  that  they  wearied  for  the  hour 
when  then  might  have  him  with  them ;  caring  for  nothing  else 
than  this  sweet  and  familiar  intercourse  with  the  Lord  of 
heaven.  And  their  parents  perceived  a  change  in  them,  and 
Low  their  only  pleasure  was  in  hastening  to  the  convent,  as  if 
it  contained  a  secret  source  of  happiness  which  had  not  been 
revealed  before.  They  therefore  questioned  them  closely ;  and 
the  children  told  them  every  thing  without  reserve. 

7.  But  the  tale  seemed  to  those  who  listened,  nothing  but 
an  idle  invention,  or  perhaps  an  artifice  in  order  to  obtain  a 
larger  quantity  of  food ;  and  they  therefore  took  no  notice  of 
what  they  said  beyond  reproving  them  for  their  folly. 

But  when  they  repeated  the  same  story  to  Bernard,  he 
listened  with  very  different  feelings;  for  he  knew  the  holy 
hearts  of  his  two  little  disciples ;  and  he  felt,  moreover,  that 
there  was  nothing  unworthy  of  belief  in  the  fact  that  he  who, 
being  God,  became  a  little  child,  should  condescend  to  give  a 
mark  of  favor  to  those  of  whom  he  himself  has  said,  that 
"of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven.''  When,  therefore,  after 
many  uiquiries,  he  had  satisfied  hunself  of  the  truth  of  the  tale, 
he  bade  them  give  glory  to  God  for  his  goodness;  and' then 
considered  whether  there  was  no  way  in  which  these  circum- 
stances might  be  made  to  serve  yet  fhrther  to  the  happiness 
and  spiritual  advancement  of  his  pupils. 

8.  And  hearing  how  they  in  their  childish  way  expressed  a 
wonder  that,  after  they  had  so  often  invited  the  child  to  eat 
some  of  their  dinner,  he  had  never  brought  any  food  with  him 
to  i(hare  with  ttuHn,  he  bade  them,  the  nsxt  tune  he  cnntf,  ask 


THE  OHILDBEN  AND  THE  INFANT  JESUS. 


115 


him  how  this  was,  and  whether  he  would  not  ask  them  some 
day  to  dine  with  hun  in  his  Father's  house.  The  boys  were 
delighted  with  this  idea ;  and  they  failed  not  to  do  as  they 
were  directed  the  next  time  that  they  were  alone  in  the  chapel. 
Then  the  child  smiled  on  them  graciously,  and  said,  "  What 
you  say  is  very  just ;  within  three  days  I  invite  yon  to  a  baur 
quet  in  my  Father's  house : "  and  with  this  answer  they  re- 
turned full  of  joy  to  their  master. 

9.  He  well  knew  the  meaning  of  this  invitation  ;  the  change 
that  had  gradually  appeared  in  his  two  beloved  disciples  had 
not  beien  unmarked  by  him ;  he  had  seen  them,  as  it  were 
before  their  time,  growing  ripe  for  heaven ;  and  he  understood 
that  it  was  the  Divine  pleasure,  after  thus  training  them  for 
heaven  in  a  marvellous  way,  that  they  should  be  transplanted  to 
the  angelic  company,  before  their  hearts  had  once  been  toncWd 
by  the  knowledge  of  sin  or  the  contamination  of  the  world. 

10.  Yet  he  sighed  to  think  that  thej  should  thus  be  granted 
to  pass  to  Christ  in  their  happy  inf.wcy,  while  he,  who  had 
grown  old  in  the  spiritual  warfare,  was  to  be  left  behind ;  and 
resolving  to  make  one  more  trial  of  the  condencension  which 
had  been  so  bounteously  lavished  on  his  pupils,  he  bade  them 
go  back  to  the  chapel,  and  tell  the  Divine  child  that  since  they 
wore  the  habit  of  the  order,  it  was  necessary  for  them  to  ob- 
serve the  rules ;  and  that  it  was  never  permitted  for  novices  to 
accept  of  any  invitation,  or  to  go  to  the  house  of  any  person, 
except  in  their  master's  company.  "Return,  then,  to  your 
master,"  said  the  Holy  Child,  "and  bid  him  be  of  the  com- 
pany ;  and  on  Thursday  morning  I  will  receive  you  all  three 
together  in  my  Father's  house." 

11.  Bernard's  heart  bounded  with  emotion  when  he  heard 
these  words.  It  was  then  the  first  of  the  RpOgation  days,  and 
the  day  which  had  been  appointed  was  therefore  Ascension 
day.  He  made  every  arrangement  as  for  his  approaching 
death,  and  obtained  leave  on  that  day  to  say  his  last  mass, — 
his  two  disciples  serving  during  the  celebration,  and  receiving 
communion  from  his  hands.  Doubtless  it  would  be  haiu  for 
us  to  realize  his  feelings  of  dtvoat  and  joyful  expeotatiou 
during  those  momeBte. 


116 


THE  THIBD  READEB. 


12.  And  when  mass  was  ended,  he  knelt  before  the  same 
altar  with  the  children,  one  on  either  side,  and  all  three  com- 
mended their  sonls  to  God,  as  though  they  knew  their  last 
hour  was  come,  and  the  altar-steps  were  to  be  their  deathbed. 
And  it  was  even  so.  An  hour  after,  some  of  the  brethren 
found  them  still  kneeling  thus  before  the  altar,  Bernard  vested 
as  for  mass,  and  the  two  boys  in  their  serving-robes. 

13.  But  they  were  quite  dead :  their  eyes  were  closed,  and 
their  faces  wore  a  smile  of  most  sweet  tranquillity ;  and  it  was 
evident  that  there  had  been  no  death-struggle,  but  that  their 
souls  had  passed  to  the  presence  of  God  while  in  the  very  act 
of  prayer.  The  were  buried  in  the  chapel  of  the  Holy  Kings, 
which  had  been  the  scene  of  so  many  of  our  Lord's  visits  to 
the  two  children ;  and  a  picture  was  hung  over  the  spot,  rep* 
resenting  them  seated  on  the  altar-step,  with  the  Divine  child 
between  them. 

14.  This  was  the  only  monument  to  mark  the  place  of  their 
burial ;  and  in  the  course  of  years  the  memory  of  it  was  lost, 
and  the  chapel  became  disused  and  neglected  as  before.  One 
of  the  succeeding  priors  of  the  convent,  wishing  to  find  some 
further  record  of  the  ancient  tradition,  dug  down  beneath  the 
spot  indicated  by  the  picture  ;  taking  care  to  have  two  apos- 
tolic notaries  and  the  vicar-general  of  the  diocese  present,  to- 
gether with  other  authorities  of  distinction  and  credit. 

15.  At  a  little  distance  beneath  the  surface  a  carved  stone 
sarcophagus  was  found,  which  being  opened,  the  church  was 
immediately  filled  with  an  odor  of  surpassing  sweetness ;  and 
on  removing  the  clothes  that  lay  on  the  top,  the  remains  of 
three  bodies  were  discovered,  which  they  could  not  doubt  were 
those  of  Blessed  Bernard  and  his  novices ;  for  the  bones  of 
the  middle  skeleton  were  the  size  of  a  grown  man,  while  those 
on  either  side- were  small  and  delicate. 

16.  From  the  great  number  of  years  that  had  passed,  most 
of  them  were  reduced  to  mere  dust ;  but  some  portions  of 
white  cloth  showed  that  they  had  been  buried  in  the  habit  of 
the  order.  The  memory  of  this  history  has  been  preserved 
even  up  to  our  own^times;  for  from  the  time  of  this  solemn 
translstfion  of  their  bodies^  a  malii  al  the  ascensicm  was  cele- 


THE  OBAYE  OF  FATHER  MABQUETTB. 


1^7 


brated  every  Thursday,  in  thanksgiving  for  the  graces  granted 
to  them,  and  a  confraternity  of  the  Infant  Jesus  established, 
to  whom  the  custody  of  the  ancient  image  was  intrusted. 
Their  death  is  supposed  by  Sosa  to  have  taken  place  about 
the  year  1217. 


11.   The  Grave  of  Father  Marqtjeite. 

1.  rpHERE  is  a  wil^and  lonely  dell, 
-l   Far  in  the  wooded  West, 
Where  never  summer's  sunbeam  fell 

To  break  its  long,  lone  rest. 
Where  never  blast  of  winter  swept, 

To  m£9e  or  to  chill, 
The  calm,  pellucid  lake  that  slept, 

O'erhung  with  rock  and  hill. 

2.  A  woodland  scene  by  hills  inclosed, 

By  rocky  barriers  curb'd, 
Where  shade  and  silence  have  reposed, 

For  ages  undisturb'd. 
Unless  when  some  dark  Indian  maid, 

Or  prophet  old  and  gray, 
Have  hiM  them  to  the  solemn  shade. 

To  weep  alone  or  pray. 

3.  One  mom,  the  boatman's  bugle  note 

Was  heard  within  the  dell, 
And  o'er  the  blue  waves  seem'd  to  float, 

Like  some  unearthly  swell. 
A  skiff  appears,  by  rowers  stout 

Urged  swiftly  o'er  the  ti^e, 
An  aged  man  sat  wrapp'd  in  thought. 

Who  seem'd  the  helm  to  guide. 


Mrv4. 


4.  He  was  a  holy  Capuchin, 

Thin  locks  were  on  his  brow ; 


118 


THE  THIBD  READEB. 


His  eye,  that  bright  and  bold  had  been, 
With  age  was  darlcen'd  now. 

From  distant  lands,  beyond  the  sea, 
The  aged  pilgrim  came, 

To  combat  base 'idolatry, 
And  spread  the  holy  name. 

6.  From  tribe  to  tribe  the  good  man  went, 

The  sacred  cross  he  bore. 
And  savage  men  on  slaughters  bent. 

Would  listen  aAd  adore. 
But  worn  with  age,  his  mission  done. 

Earth  had  for  him  no  tiS, 
He  had  no  further  wish,  save  one, — 

To  hie  him  home  and  die. 

6.  The  oarsman  spoke,  "  Let's  not  delay. 

Good  father,  in  this  dell ; 
Tis  here  that  savage  legends  say. 

Their  sinless  spirits  dwell. 
The  hallow'd  foot  of  prophet  sere, 

Or  pure  and  spotless  maid. 
May  only  dare  to  venture  here, 

When  night  has  spread  her  shade.'' 

T.  "  Dispel,  my  son,  thy  groundless  fear. 

And  let  thy  heart  be  bold. 
For  see,  upon  my  breast  I  bear, 

The  consecrated  gold. 
The  blessed  cross  that  long  hath  been 

Companion  of  my  path. 
Preserved  me  in  the  tempest's  din. 

Or  stay'd  the  Ini^then's  wrath, 

8.  "  Shall  guard  us  from  the  threatened  harm. 
What  form  soe'er  it  take, 
'lii'*  hurric  ine,  or  savage  arm, 
Or  spL'ifi  of  the  lake." 


THE  OBAYE  or  FATHEB  MABQUETTS. 

"  But  father  oball  we  nrver  ceaie, 
Through  8a?»ff«  wilds  to   uem  ? 

My  heart  is  yearniug  for  the  peace, 
That  smiles  for  ub  at  home. 

9.  "We've  traced  the  river  of  the  Wet, 

From  sea  to  foantain-heau, 
And  sail'd  o'er  broad  Superior's  breast, 

By  wild  adventure  led. 
We've  slept  beneath  the  cypress  sluide, 

Where  noisome  reptile  lay, 
We've  chased  the  panther  to  his  beu. 

And  heard  the  grim  wolf  bay. 

10.  "And  now  for  sunny  France  we  sigh, 

For  quiet  and  for  home ; 
Then  bid  us  pass  the  valley  by, 

Where  only  spirits  roam." 
"  Repine  not,  son  !  old  age  is  slow. 

And  feeble  feet  are  mine ; 
This  moment  to  my  home  I  go. 

And  thou  shalt  go  to  thine. 

11.  "  But  ere  I  quit  this  vale  of  death. 

For  realms  more  bright  and  fair. 
On  yon  green  shore  my  feeble  breath, 

Would  rise  to  Heaven  in  prayer. 
Then  high  on  yonder  headland's  brow, 

The  holy  altar  raise ; 
Uprear  the  cross,  and  let  us  bow 

With  humble  hearts  in  praise.'^ 

12.  Thus  said,  the  cross  was  soon  uprear'd, 

On  that  lone,  heathen  shore, 
Where  never  Christian  voice  was  heard 

In  prayer  to  God  before. 
The  old  man  knelt,  his  head  was  bare. 

His  arms  cross'd  on  his  breast ; 


119 


iMHMi 


120  THE  THIRD  READER. 

ft 

He  pray'd,  but  none  could  hear  the  prayer 
His  wither'd  lips  expressed. 

13.  He  ceased,  they  raised  the  holy  man, 
Then  gazed  in  silent  dread, 
Chill  through  each  vein  the  life-blood  ran,— 
;'  The  pilgrim's  soul  had  fled. 

'  In  silence  pray'd  each  voyager. 

Then*  beads  they  counted  o'er, 
Then  made  a  hasty  sepulchre. 
On  that  lone  ravine's  shore. 


"\ 


14.  Beside  the  altar  where  he  knelt. 

And  where  the  Lord  released 
His  spirit  from  its  pilgrimage. 

They  laid  the  holy  priest. 
In  fear  and  haste,  a  brief  adieu 

The  wondering  boatmen  take, 
Then  rapidly  then:  course  pursue 

Across  the  lonely  lake. 

\h.  In  after  years,  when  bolder  men 

The  vale  of  spirits  sought, 
O'er  many  »  wild  and  wooded  glen 

They  roam'd,  but  found  it  not. 
We  only  know  that  such  a  priest 

There  was,  and  thus  he  fell, 
But  where  his  saintly  relics  rest. 

No  livmg  man  can  tell. 


/'  12.   Abraham.  r^     :i 

ISMAEL'S  banishment  restored  peace  to  Abraham's  family, 
and  left  Isaac  the  one  and  sole  heir  of  his  father's  fortune. 
Isaac  was  growing  up  in  the  full  promise  of  early  youth,  when 
God  was  pleased  to  make  trial  of  Abraham's  faith,  in  a  point 


1 


ABRAHAM. 


121 


the  most  decisive ;  he  ordered  him  to  take  that  very  Isaac,  his 
beloved  son,  and  to  offer  him  in  sacrifice  upon  the  mountain  he 
would  show  him. 


\ 


Vi 


ay, 

ine. 
len 
bint 


2.  Abraham  had  always  looked  upon  his  son  as  a  special 
gift  from  God,  and,  therefore,  did  not  hesitate  a  single  moment 
to  give  him  back  in  the  manner  that  God  required.  He  had 
been  assured  that  his  posterity  should  one  day  become  as  nu- 
merous as  the  sands  upon  the  shore,  or  as  the  stars  in  heaven. 


122 


THE  THIRD  READER. 


Steadfast,  therefore,  in  that  belief,  and  unshaken  in  his  hope, 
Abraham  stifled  every  doubt  he  might  otherwise  have  formed 
of  the  repeated  promises  God  had  made  him  ;  he  rose  early  in 
the  morning,  and  keeping  his  secret  to  himself,  went  silently 
out  with  Isaac  and  two  servants. 

3.  He  carried  with  him  the  wood  necessary  to  consume  the 
holocaust,  and  directed  his  way  towards  the  mountain.  Fixed 
in  his  resolution,  he  went  on  for  two  days,  and  on  the  third 
came  in  sight  of  the  destined  place  of  sacrifice.  He  told  his 
servants  to  remain  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  while  he  with  his 
son  should  go  up  to  adore  their  God.  Inflexible  to  the  sug- 
gestions of  flesh  and  blood,  he  took  in  his  hand  the  fire  and 
the  sword,  and  gave  to  his  son  the  wood  that  was  intended 
for  the  sacred  fire. 

4.  Charged  with  his  load,  Isaac  proceeded  up  the  hill,  a 
very  lively  figure  of  him  who  was  afterwards  to  ascend  the 
mount  of  Calvary  loaded  with  a  cross,  on  which  he  was  to 
consummate  the  great  work  of  our  redemption.  As  they  were 
going  on,  Isaac  asked  his  father  where  the  victim  was  ?  The 
question  was  too  interesting  not  to  awaken  all  the  tenderness 
of  a  father's  love  in  such  circumstances ;  Abraham  dissembled 
the  secret  feelings  of  his  heart,  and  with  a  manly  firmness  an- 
swered, that  God  would  provide  the  victim. 

5.  Being  come  to  the  appointed  spot,  he  erected  an  altar, 
and  laid  the  wood  in  order  upon  it ;  then  having  bound  and 
placed  his  son  Isaac  thereon,  he  took  op  the  sword,  and 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  strike.  The  firm  obedience  of  the 
father/  and  the  humble  submission  of  the  son,  were  all  that 
God  required  of  them.  An  angel  at  that  moment  was  dis- 
patched to  stop  the  father's  arm,  and  to  adsure  him  that  God 
was  satisfied  with  the  readmess  of  his  obedience.  The  angel 
called  aloud  on  Abraham  ;  Abraham  answered  the  voice,  and 
looking  round  saw  a  ram  with  his  horns  entangled  amid  the 
brambles,  which  he  took  and  offered  as  a  holocaust  for  his  son. 

6.  This  history,  which  is  so  mysterious,  and  in  almost  every 
circumstance  so  resembling  the  stations  of  our  Saviour's  pas- 
sion, is,  according  to  the  holy  fathers,  an  instruction  for  all 
parents  to  consult  the  will  an4  implore  the  aid  of  God,  before 


r 


•  t 


HOHENUNDEN. 


123 


\\ 


they  presume  to  dispose  of  their  children.  Nothing  less  than 
the  eternal  welfare  of  their  souls,  and  the  service  of  Almighty 
God,  ought  to  guide  their  attention,  and  regulate  their  con- 
duct in  this  respect. 

7.  Saint  Gbrysostom  more  at  large  deplores  the  misfortune 
of  those  parents  who,  notwithstanding  their  Christian  profes- 
sion, sacrifice  their  children,  not  to  God  as  Abraham  did,  but 
to  Satan,  either  by  engaging  them  in  the  pursuits  of  a  vain 
world,  or  by  drawing  them  from  the  practice  of  a  virtuous 
life.  "  Abraham  h  the  only  one,"  says  he,  "  who  consecrates  his 
son  to  God,  while  thousands  of  others  turn  then*  children  over 
to  the  devil ;  and  the  joys  we  feel  in  seeing  some  few  take  a 
Christian  care  of  their  little  ones,  is  presently  suppressed  with 
grief  at  the  sight  of  those  greater  numbers,  who  totally 
neglect  that  duty,  and  by  the  example  they  give,  deserve  to 
be  considered  rather  as  parricides,  than  the  parents  of  their 
children.' 


iltar, 
and 
and 
If  the 
that 
dis- 
God 
mgel 
and 
the 
son. 
ivery 
pas- 
H  all 
sfore 


13.    HOHENUNDEN. 

1.  AN  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
yj  All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow ; 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

3.  But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 

The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

8.  By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  array'd, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade ; 
And  fiirions  every  charger  neigh'd 
To  join  the  dreadful  revehry. 

4.  Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  rush'd  the  steed  to  battle  driven, 


I  ': 


4M.  THE  THIBD  READER. 

And  loader  than  the  bolts  of  heaven 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

5.  But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stain'd  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 

Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

6.  'Tis  mom ;  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun. 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 

Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

t.  The  combat  deepens.    On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory  or  the  grave  1 
Wave,  Munich  !  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry  1 

8.  Few,  few  shell  part  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding  sheet ; 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 


14.  Language  of  Flowers. 

GOOD  news  1  joyful  news  ! "  cried  the  happy  voice  of  Alice 
Telford,  running  in  with  a  huge  bunch  of  roses  in  her 
hand.  "  Gome,  Gattie  I  come,  Honor  I  we  are  to  go  to  help 
Sister  Theresa  in  the  sacristy, — oh,  I  do  so  love  i^hat !  The 
great  candlesticks  are  out,  and  the  new  branches,  and  such  a 
lovely  veil  for  the  tabernacle !  I  was  peeping  in  with  one 
eye,  after  I  had  helped  to  clean  the  chapel,  and  Father  Ash- 
urst  said  'Gome  here  with  me;  I  see  what  yon  want;'  and 
he  went  into  the  nuns'  sacristy,  aud  told  Sister  Theresa  there 
was  a  poor  beggar  outside  who  wanted  to  speak  to  her  ;  and 
when  she  came  out,  he  did  so  laugh  I  and  then  Sister  Theresa 
told  me  to  fetch  all  the  girls  to  help  to  dress  the  sanctuary." 


I 


LANOUAOE  OF  FLOWEBS. 


125; 


Alice 
n  her 
help 
The 
uch  a 
one 
Ash- 
and 
there 
;  and 
leresa 
uary." 


.f 


2.  She  was  still  speaking,  when  all  the  children  began  to 
ran  here  and  there,  to  gather  up  their  flowers,  vases,  and 
strings ;  but  the  lay  sister,  who  was  darning  stockings  at  the 
table,  quietly  collected  her  work  into  her  basket,  and  with  a 
few  calm  and  controlling  words  stilled  the  excitement,  and 
soon  reducing  the  scattered  elements  into  order,  a  quiet  pro- 
gressive movement  was  effected  towards  the  convent. 

8.  They  found  Lucy  Ward  and  Magdalen  in  the  nuns'  sac- 
risty. The  former  was  silently  arranging  a  large  basket  of 
exquisite  hot-house  flowers  in  tall  fairy-like  white  vases ;  and 
as  the  sacristan  glanced  at  those  which  were  finished,  she 
could  not  but  marvel  at  the  faultless  taste  which  guided  the 
labor,  and  breathe  a  fervent  prayer  for  the  soul  that  seemed 
marked  out  by  God  for  some  special  grace. 
\  ,  4.  "You  love  flowers,  Lucy?" 

"Do  I  not  love  them,  sister  ?"  replied  Lucy ;  "I  dream  of 
them  at  night, — I  should  like  to  die-looking  at  them." 

"  Which  do  you  love  best  ?  " 

"  I  never  could  quite  tell.  They  speak  such  different  words ; 
but  all  that  they  say  makes  music." 

"True.    Is  that  why  you  love  them  ?" 

5.  "  Yes,  sister ;  I  get  very  tired  of  hearing  people  talk, 
but  I  am  never  tired  of  the  silent  words  of  my  dear  flowers. 
They  say  so  much." 

"  What  do  they  seem  to  say  to  you  this  evening  ?" 
"They  all  seem  to  whisper  something  new,"  replied  Lucy, 

thoughtfully,  and  as  if  to  herself.     "Look  at  these  white 

camellias,  and  side  by  side  with  them  these  blood-red  ones. 

They  seem  to  me  to  mean  so  much,  but  I  cannot  read  it. 

Can  you,  sister?" 

6.  "Yes,"  replied  the  nun,  gently.  "The  sight  of  that 
pure  white  and  blood-red  reminds  us  always  of  the  Sacred 
Heart  of  Jesus  that  was  pierced  for  us.  Look,  here  are  the 
blood  and  water  that  flowed  out  for  us.  They  speak  the 
sweetest  music  to  our  hearts." 

1.  "That  is  beautiful  1"  said  Lucy,  hanging  on  the  words ; 
"  and  you  understand  the  flowers  too.  Everybody  has  always 
laughed  at  me  if  I  spoke  about  it,  except  Matthew.    Dealr 


'-y-MaMfMi!;- 


126 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


Ill 


Matthew —  he  never  laughs  at  me  but  he  shakes  his  head, 
and  says  I  have  wild  talk,  and  he  can't  make  it  out/' 
"You  love  Matthew?" 

8.  "  Oh,  I  love  him  in  my  deep  heart  1 "  said  Lucy,  her 
wax-like  cheek  and  brow  flushing  with  a  thrill  of  feeling. 

"You  have,  then,  two  hearts;  and  you  love  sometunes 
with  one  and  sometimes  with  the  other?" 

"  Yes^  sister,  I  have  an  outer  heart  for  everybody ;  but  no 
one  m  in  my  inside  heart  but  Matthew  and — "  she  stopped 
short. 

9.  "  And  our  Lord,  now — Lucy?" 

"  I  can't  tell,"  replied  Lucy,  returning  to  her  old  reserve. 
"  No,  I  think  my  inside  heart  is  very  empty.  Let  us  talk  about 
the  flowers  again.  Look  at  these  roses,  sister ;  their  heads 
are  quite  bowed  down  with  their  weight ;  they  cannot  keep 
in  their  sweet  smell ;  it  seems  as  if  it  burst  out  from  their  great 
cups.    That  says  something  beautiful,  but  I  don't  know  what." 

10.  "I  think  it  does,"  replied  the  nun:  "it  says  that  they 
are  a  faint  poor  type  of  that  great  One  who  said,  'I  am  the 
Rose  of  Sharon;'  and  whose  thorn-crowned  head  was  so 
bowed  down  with  his  weight  of  love  on  the  cross,  that  the 
overflowing  scent  of  it  converted  first  the  poor  thief,  and 
afterwards  thousands  of  miserable  sinners.  Let  it  draw  you, 
my  child,  till  you  run  after  those  most  precious  odors,  and 
make  theln  yours  forever." 

11.  Lucy  was  quite  silent  foi  a  few  minutes,  and  then  draw- 
ing out  a  rich  cluster  of  geraniums,  she  turned  her  large  eyes 
full  on  the  nun  and  said,  "These  I  love  best  of  all,  but  I 
never  could  make  out  what  they  said.  They  all  seem  to  sing 
together  a  very  rich  song  that  goes  throngli  my  heart,  like  a 
hymn  I  heard  the  Spanish  sailors  sing  down  on  the  Parade 
last  summer  at  night.     Can  you  read  these  ?" 

12.  "Perhaps  not  in  a  way  that  you  can  understand. 
These  may  represent  the  royal  and  special  gifts  which  God 
bestows  on  the  friends  he  has  chosen  to  himself.  They  are 
set  apart  and  separated  from  other  gifts.  They  are  only  to 
be  bought  at  a  great  price,  nay,  they  are  often  of  priceless 
value.    They  cost  labor,  and  pains,  and  watdiing ;  but  vJbea 


\i 


HOMEWABD  BOUInD. 


127 


the  vork  is  done,  where  can  we  find  its  like  ?  Those  who  pos- 
sess them  will  be  the  brightest  jewels  in  his  crown  at  the  last 
day." 

13.  "And  who  can  win  these  gifts?"  said  Lucy,  breath- 
lessly awaiting  the  answer. 

"  Those  who  love^"  replied  the  nun,  and  her  words  seemed 
to  Lucy  ihiQ  solemn  voice  of  God. 

The  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes,  and  she  murmured  to  herself, 
"When  shall  I  knew  him?  When  will  ho  fill  my  inner 
heart?" 


15.   Homeward  Bound. 

1.  fVEL  I  when  the  hour  to  meet  again 
^  Creeps  on — and,  speeding  o'er  the  sea, 
My  heart  takes  up  its  lengtiieji'd  chain, 

And,  link  by  link,  draws  nearer  thee — 
When  land  is  hail'd,  and  from  the  shore. 

Comes  off  the  blessed  breath  of  home. 
With  fragrance  from  my  mother's  door, 

Of  flowers  forgotten  when  I  come — 


128 


THE  I'UlUD  BEADED. 


When  port  is  gain'd,  and,  slowlj  now, 
The  old  familiar  paths  are  pass'd, 

And,  entering — unconscious  how — 
I  gaze  upon  thy  face  at  last. 

And  run  to  thee,  all  faint  and  weak, 

And  feel  thy  tears  upon  my  cheek. 
2.      Oh  !  if  my  heart  break  not  with  joy. 

The  light  of  heaven  will  fairer  seem ; 
And  I  shall  grow  once  more  a  boy : 

And,  mother ! — ^'twill  be  like  a  dream, 
That  we  were  parted  thus  for  years — 
And  once  that  we  have  dried  our  tears, 
How  will  the  days  seem  long  and  bright— 

To  meet  thee  always  with  the  mom. 
And  hear  thy  blessing  ey«'ry  night — 

Thy  "  dearest,"  thy  "  first  bom  1  »* 
And  be  no  more,  as  now,  in  a  strange  land  forlorn  ? 


W 


16.   Luetics  Dbatb. 


iiji 
Hi; 


HOW  is  Lncy?''  asked  Mildr^  of  Oattie,  as  she  softly 
entered  the  children's  classroom  on  the  mommg  of  the 
eve  of  the  Octave  of  the  Assumption;  "have  yoa  seen  h 
Cattie?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have  been  with  Magdalen  to  talk  to  her,  and 
to  say  our  office,"  replied  Cattle ;  "  Magdalen  thinks  she  will 
die  very  soon,  but  I  cannot  believe  it.  Oh,  she  does  look  so 
bright  and  beautiful— just  like  an  angel !" 

2.  "That's  why  I  think  she's  going  to  die,"  replied  Mag- 
dalen, who  now  followed  Cattie  into  the  room  with  her  office- 
book  in  her  hand.  "  Lucy  looks  much  too  beantiful  to  live ; 
I  mean  not  commonly  beautiful,  but  she  has  such  a  wonderful 
look.  Her  eyes  seem  as  if  they  had  seen  our  Blessed  Lady 
already ;  and  she  smiles  every  now  and  then  to  herself,  as  if 
the  angels  were  talking  to  her." 

8.  "So  thej  do,  «0d  oar  Lord,  too,  I  am  sure,"  added 


/ 


I 

is 


luoy's  death. 


129 


BOftlj 

>f  the 
h 

r,  and 
,e  will 
»ok  so 

Mag- 
ofBce- 

live; 
lerful 
Lady 

as  if 

added 


Cattie ;  "for  she  said  when  nobody  was  speaking,  'Yes,  that 
is  qoite  true — ^yes,  dear  Lord ; '  just  as  if  our  Lord  were  sitting 
by  the  couch.  Oh,  I  hope  we  may  go  again  soon  and  see 
her!" 

4.  "  Sister  Xavier  said  we  might  sit  up  part  of  to-night," 
replied  Magdalen ;  "  we  four  are  to  take  it  in  turns,  and  I  am 
so  glad  we  may.  But  now  we  must  go  into  school,  for  the 
bell  is  just  going  to  ring." 

5.  The  sivid  bell  accordingly  did  ring  before  Cattie  had 
finished  washing  her  hands  ;  and  the  half-sad,  half-rejoicing 
group  in  the  class-room  was  dispersed  by  its  well-known  sound. 

We  shall  take  the  opportunity  of  walking  up  to  the  convent, 
and  into  the  cool  infirmary  dormitoi'y,  where  Lucy  lay  upon  a 
large  couch,  with  dear  Sister  Xavier  by  her  side. 

6.  T.^  dormitory  was  long  and  high,  and  refreshingly 
shaded  by  outside  awnings  from  the  scorching  sun,  so  that  the 
breezes  blew  in  cool  and  fragrant  over  the  garden  and  from 
the  sea  beyond.  The  turfy  downs  outside  the  walls  looked 
now  green  and  bright,  and  now  shadowy,  as  the  clouds  flew 
over  them ;  and  beyond,  the  castle-crowned  hill,  and  distant, 
picturesque  old  town,  the  chalk  clifib  washed  by  the  waves,  the 
far-off  fleet  of  fishing-boats,  and  the  wild  everlasting  sea,— > 
oonld  all  be  seen  by  Lucy,  as  in  some  lovely  Italian  landscape, 
exquisitely  painted. 

7.  But  though  at  times  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  blue 
sky  or  bluer  sea,  her  thoughts  were  not  of  them.  Beautiful 
as  was  the  world  without, — the  glorious  "earth-rind"  of  the 
external  works  of  God, — there  were  far  lovelier  visions  floating 
before  the  eyes  of  the  pure  and  loving  soul  that  was  bidding 
earthly  beauty  farewell  for  her  eternal  home. 

8.  For  now,  indeed,  Lucy  was  dying.  The  longing  desire 
of  heaven,  and  the  face  of  her  Incarnate  God,  had  so  fretted 
the  frail  body,  which  already  inherited  the  most  rapid  form  of 
decline,  that  thread  after  thread  of  the  delicate  frame  had 
snapped,  or,  as  it  were,  been  consumed  by  the  ardent  fire  within. 

9.  A  careless  observer  might  have  been  even  now  deceived ; 
but  to  a  practised  eye,  the  alabaster  temples,  the  starting 
azure  veins,  the  bright  cheek  and  lips,  and  the  deep,  glittermg 


130 


THB  THIRD  BEAPBR. 


III! 


brightness  of  the  eye,  told  that  in  a  few  honra  the  thirsting 
soul  would  be  at  rest. 

10.  "Sister,"  whispered  Lucy,  ''will  Father  Ashurst  come 
soon?" 

"  Very  soon,  dear  child ;  it  is  not  three  o'clock  yet.  Do 
you  feel  worse  ?" 

"I  feel  well,"  replied  Lucy,  speaking  with  difficulty,  "qwUe 
well ;  but  oh,  I  see  such  lovely  things,  and  I  want  to  get  there 
very  much." 

1 1.  The  sister  listened  with  breathless  attention,  while  Lucy, 
as  if  from  a  heavy  dream  or  half  ectasy,  in  broken  sentences 
continued — 

"  No  words  can  tell  what  they  are  like  ....  white  shapes, 
all  snow-white,  with  golden  dew-drops  on  their  wings  ....  and 
they  bow  down  softly  all  together,  like  white  lilies  when  the 
vind  blows  over  them.  They  are  going  up  and  up,  such  a 
g'orious  place  ....  and  they  take  me  with  them  ....  but 

w  bere  I  cannot  see There  is  one  there  who  sits  like  a 

king,  but  I  cannot  see  his  face ;  he  says  it  is  not  time."  .... 

12.  Two  sisters  at  the  moment  came  soft!)  Into  the  dormi- 
tory,  one  of  whom  whispered  something  to  Sister  Xavier ;  the 
other  was  Mother  Regis,  the  novice-mistress,  whom  Lucy  had 
always  greatly  loved.  But  now  she  did  not  perceive  her ;  and 
SB  they  quietly  sat  down  behind  the  couch,  she  again  spoke : 

13.  "And  now,  I  think,  it  would  be  time,  if  Father  Ashurst 
were  to  come  and  bring  me  my  last  food.  I  think  if  he  were 
here,  I  could  beg  him  so  much  that  he  could  not  leave  me  be- 
hind. Dear  Sister  Xavier,  will  you  ask  Father  Ashurst  to 
come  now  ?  " 

14.  "He  is  coming,  my  child,"  replied  the  sister,  softly 
rising  and  bending  over  her ;  "  but,  Lucy,  yea  promised  to 
be  very  good  and  patient." 

"  Yes,  sister,  I  was  wrong.  Indeed  I  will  ))e  good.  I  will 
wait ;  but  every  moment  seems  a  year.  I  cannot  think  how 
you  can  be  always  so  patient  when  you  see  those  shapes,  and 
see  his  face  so  often,  and  hear  his  voice.  Now  I  see  them 
going  up  again. 

15.  "  Oh,  how  many,  many  thoosajids,  with  their  hands  to* 


W 


^r 


luoy's  death. 


131 


getber,  and  their  long,  long  wings,  uid  their  snow-white  robes  I 
And  there  are  more,  more,  with  bare  heads,  and  crimson  crosses 
on  their  breasts,  and  bright  armor,  and  cloalcs  all  washed  in 
the  blood  of  One.  Oh,  let  me  go  with  them  I  Show  me  thy 
face,  and  let  me  live  I " 

16.  Sister  Xayier  rose  and  glided  away;  but  she  soon  re- 
turned with  a  religious,  at  the  sight  of  whom  the  sisters  rose, 
and  removed  further  from  Lucy's  couch.  It  was  the  Mother 
Superior,  who  quietly  took  her  place  beside  Lucy's  pillow,  and 
wiped  the  death-drops  that  now  stood  thickly  on  her  trans- 
parent brow. 

"  Reverend  mother,'^  said  the  child,  catching  hold  of  her 
hand,  and  kissing  it  with  joyful  respect,  "  where  am  I  ?  "  Then 
immediately  she  relapsed  into  her  former  dreamy  state. 

17.  "There  is  one  sitting  by  his  side.  She  is  coming  soon 
for  me,  for  her  hands  are  spread  out  towards  me.    O  Mary  ! 

0  Mother  !  Mary,  lead  me  to  Jesus  I . . . .  Come  quickly,  dear 
Jesus ;  I  am  very  tired  of  waiting.  Oh,  let  me  see  thee  1 
Thou  art  sweeter  than  honey  and  the  honeycomb.  Thon  art 
calling  me  to  be  crowned  on  the  mountains.     How  long  have 

1  cried  to  thee  to  come  !....''  Lucy  sank  back,  gaspmg  on 
the  pillow;  her  breath  coming  thick  and  thicker  from  her 
laboring  breast,  while  the  drops  stood  on  her  forehead  like 
rain.  Her  eyes  opened,  and  their  depths  seemed  deeper  than 
ever.     "  Food  1  food  1 "  she  gasped,  "  the  end  is  coming." 

18.  At  that  moment  the  faint  sound  of  a  distant  bell  was 
heard  coming  along  the  corridors.  It  was  borne  so  faintly  at 
first,  that  the  sisters  did  not  observe  it ;  but  the  first  sound 
was  enough  for  the  ear  of  the  listener.  To  her  it  was  the 
"cry  of  the  voice"  of  the  Beloved.  She  sprang  up  from  the 
pillows,  clasped  her  hands  together,  and  gazed  at  the  door  of 
the  dormitory  with  her  whole  soul  in  her  eyes. 

19.  Sister  Xavier  immediately  perceiving  that  the  blessed 
sacrament  was  approaching,  went  out  with  Mother  Regis  to 
meet  it.  The  little  altar  had  been  freshly  prepared  by  the 
infirmarian  with  large  bouquets  of  flowers,  and  was  now  hfted 
by  the  other  sister  to  the  foot  of  Lucy's  couch,  at  a  little  dis- 
tance from  it.    Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  bell.   The  acolytes 


132 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


!      !|l' 


f    'ii: 
■'   'i'li 


ii 


entered,  two  and  two,  with  lighted  candles ;  then  all  the  sis* 
ters ;  and  lastly  came  Father  Asharst,  in  snrplice,  veil,  and 
stole,  bearing  the  blessed  sacrament  in  the  ciborium,  from  the 
chapel.    The  "children  of  Mary"  stole  in  behind. 

20.  Lucy's  glorious  eyes  were  upraised  to  the  Sacred  Host, 
and  fixed  with  such  adoring  love  as  filled  the  witnesses  with 
an  awful  joy.  "Jesus,"  she  said,  and  the  clear  tones  of  her 
young  voice  sounded  through  the  breathless  stillness  like  the 
voice  of  an  angel, — "Jesus,  my  food,  my  strength,  my  life, 
come  to  my  thirsty  soul.  Now  I  see  thy  face.  It  is  enough ; 
I  come  into  thy  precious,  precious  wounds  ! " 

21.  She  received  the  bread  of  life,  the  strength  and  help  for 
her  last  journey,  and  immediately  sank  back  on  the  pillows. 
Her  hands  were  clasped ;  her  deep  eyes  fixed :  a  bright,  heav- 
enly smile  flitted  across  her  face.  "Jesus,  O  Jesus  1  now  I 
see  thee  1  Jesus,  Mary,  come  I " 

22.  The  long,  level  rays  of  the  evening  sun  streamed  upon 
the  conch,  gilding  the  angelic  face  and  shmmg  waves  of  hair, 
the  smUe  yet  lingering,  the  lips  yet  apart,  the  hands  still  gently 
clasped  upon  the  breast. 

l^e  pilgr'm  was  gone  on  her  way  refireshed ;  the  wanderer 
was  at  home. 


17.     AXTTOBIOOBAPHY  OF  A  BOSE. 

ON  a  fine  morning  in  June,  I  opened  my  eyes  for  the  first 
time  on  as  lovely  a  scene  as  could  be  imagined.  I  was 
in  the  heart  of  a  most  beautiful  garden  filled  with  flowers. 
Fucshias,  geraniums,  jasmines,  tulips,  and  lilies  were  my  com- 
panions. I  saw  them  all  wide  awake,  and  smiling  through  the 
dew  upon  their  bright  lids  in  joyous  greeting  to  the  morning 
sun.  A  gentle  breeze  would  sometimes  wander  by,  and  then 
the  tears  of  rejoicing  would  fall  upon  the  delicate  blades  of 
grass  at  our  feet. 

2.  The  dew  made  the  robes  of  my  neighbors  as  bright  as  if 
covered  with  diamonds,  so  that  I  cast  a  look  upon  my  own 
pink  vesture,  to  see  if  I  were  likewise  adorned  with  the  same 


I 


A 


■■■-■ii 


JOTTOBIOOBAPHY  OF  A  BOSK. 


133 


glory.  As  I  bowed  my  head  to  inspect  myself,  a  few  dropB 
of  the  crystal  water,  coudeiised  at  uightfall,  fell  upon  the  grass 
at  my  feet,  and  from  this  I  learned  that  I  was  indeed  gifted 
with  as  beautiful  g(msa3  were  those  around  me. 

3.  Let  me  describe  to  you  one  of  the  little  community  of 
which  I  was  a  member — a  sister  rose-bud  growing  at  my  side. 
It  is  true  that  she  had  not  opened  her  glowing  heart  to  the 
fresh  breezes  and  to  the  sunshine,  as  I  had  done,  but  the 
beauty  and  fragrance  thus  concealed  were  so  sweetly  promised, 
that  I  am  sure  nothing  could  be  more  lovely. 

4.  Spreading  tenderly,  her  calyx  held  her  heart,  bursting 
with  the  wealth  of  its  own  beauty,  lest  the  wooing  winds 
should  call  forth  her  fragrance  prematurely ;  and  two  sister 
baby  rose-buds  rested  their  little  heads  almost  upon  her  cheek. 
Pretty  twins,  these  baby  rose-buds  !  The  tell-tale  zephyr  told 
me  that  they  would  be  as  beautiful  as  the  one  I  am  now  de- 
scribing, when  she,  poor  thing,  had  faded  away. 

5.  Now,  you  see,  my  heart  first  tasted  sorrow ;  for  here- 
tofore I  had  not  heard  of  decay  or  dea^h ;  and  the  emotion 
fy;pused  by  this  thought  agitated  me  so  violently,  that  my  dew- 
diamonds  were  almost  all  cast,  like  worthless  bubbles,  to  the 
ground.  This  joy,  this  sunshine,  this  fragrance,  this  beauty, 
was  bom  to  fade — or  rather  we  flowers,  who  love  all  these, 
and  treasure  them  in  our  hearts,  ttx  must  fade,  and  so  the  joy, 
and  fragrance,  and  beauty  must  die.  But  my  beautiful  sister 
was  lovely  enough  to  be  immortal — -^nd  I  shut  my  heart 
against  the  story  of  the  zephyr,  determined  not  to  believe  in 
clouds  till  clouds  should  overshadow  me. 

6.  The  bright  green  leaves  spread  their  glittering  pahns  to 
catch  the  sunshine  for  the  fair  creature  the^were  so  proud  to 
encircle,  and  Ctery  motion  of  the  parent  stem  brought  a  flood 
of  smiles  to  the  face  of  my  peerless  sister. 

7.  A  beautiful  creature,  endowed  with  wings,  and  with  a 
throat  colored  like  the  rainbows  only  with  hues  more  soft, 
played  about  her  like  an  embodjil^  breeze ;  now  darting,  with 
a  motion  that  made  it  invisible,  up  into  the  air,  and  in  a  mo. 
ment  swaying,  with  a  musical  hum  of  wings,  around  my  rose* 
neighbor,  and  making  her  sunny  vesture  tremble  with  the 


W^l^»mmtmmmm 


134 


THE  THIBD  BEADER. 


.  '1' 


Ml! 


!t 


happy  emotions  of  her  heart ;  then,  with  kisses  and  caresses 
on  my  sister's  stainless  brow,  the  wonderful  creature  was  lost 
in  the  air  above  me,  and  I  think  that  the  hmnming-bird  must 
have  gone  to  a  place  where  there  is  no  death.  I  think  it  is 
with  the  breath  of  these  beautiful  beings  that  the  rainbow  is 
colored,  and  with  their  brightness  that  the  stars  are  lighted. 

8.  I  saw  strange,  large  beings,  with  power  in  every  motion, 
bending  over  us,  and  afterwards  learned  that  they  were  called 
men.  They  held  dominion  over  us,  and  though  some  scorned 
our  gentle  natures,  they  who  were  pure  and  good  among  them 
were  very  tender  to  us,  and  could  not  bear  to  see  us  wounded. 

9.  At  noon  of  my  first  day,  when  the  shadow  of  the  moun* 
tain-ash  waving  over  our  heads  completely  hid  me  from  the 
sun,  for  which  kindness  I  was  deeply  grateful,  as  the  rays,  so 
cheering  in  the  morning,  were  almost  scorching  now,  one  of 
the  daughters  of  men,  robed  in  white,  came  and  kneeled  beside 
me,  and  laid  her  pure  cheek  close  to  mine,  and  then  with  her 
eyes  she  talked  to  me.  ^^yy, 

10.  "Rose,"  said  she,  "beautiful  rose,  thou  art  an  emblem 
of  my  blessed  mother,"  and  here  a  dew  more  pure  and  sweet 
than  the  drops  I  had  sacrificed  in  the  mornmg  at  the  thought 
of  death  and  decay,  floated  along  the  dark  fringes  of  her  lids, 
and  I  could  not  hear  the  voice  from  her  eyes  until  those  peer- 
less gems  had  fallen  upon  my  bosom.  Then  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  could  hear  and  see  things  more  wonderful  than  were 
ever  given  to  rose  before  to  hear  and  see. 

11.  "Beautiful  rose  1"  she  continued,  "lift  thy  royal  head, 
and  look  eastward ;  thou  beholdest  there  a  building  most 
sacred  to  our  hearts,  for  it  contains  the  King  of  Heaven — the 
Creator  of  the  world — the  Author  of  my  being  and  of  thine. 
Lovely  flower,  ages  and  ages  ago,  longer  ago  than  thou  or  I 
can  think  to  measure,  in  the  glorious  country  beyond  the  stars 
— in  heuven — where  stands  the  eternal  throne  of  our  King,  a 
beautiful  angel,  a  being  of  power  and  light,  rebelled  against 
his  God,  and  was  cast  out  of  his  holy  home  forever.  Then 
the  world  was  created. 

12.  "It  was  made  as  perfect  and  delightful  as  our  Heavenly 
Father  could  frame  it,  and  there  wrs  neither  sin,  nor  tears, 


AUTOBIOGBAPHY*OF  A  BOSE. 


136 


t 


nor  death,  nor  sorrow  there.  In  this  garden  of  God  was  man 
first  created.  He  was  formed  holy,  sinless,  and  pure,  but  free 
as  was  the  bright  angel  who,  with  his  brethren,  choae  to  ques- 
tion the  power  of  the  Omnipotent.  The  name  of  this  angel 
was  Lucifer,  and  his  dominion  was  established  in  outer  dark- 
ness^  far  away  from  the  eternal  fountain  of  all  light.         /i-xj^. 

IS.  "Beautiful  rose,"  said  the  maiden,  "thou  who  art  nur- 
tured by,  and  wouldst  die  but  for  the  light,  thou  canst  not 
conceive  of  this  outer  darkness — ^but  it  exists,  and  the  fallen 
angels  seek  to  blacken  the  universe  with  its  gloom.  The  first 
of  mankind,  who  were  to  enjoy  eternal  light  so  long  as  they 
were  obedient  to  God,  were  discovered  by  the  prince  of  dark- 
ness, and  he  took  the  form  of  a  reptile,  and  tempted  them  to 
doubt  the  truth  of  the  Almighty  Father.  They  believed  his 
subtle  words  and  fell,  and  were  banished  from  the  garden  as 
Lucifer  had  been  banished  from  heaven." 


18.   AxTTOBiOGBAPHY  OF  A  BosE — conttnued. 

SWEET  rose,  I  dare  not  tell  thee  the  wretchedness  this 
disobedience  brought  upon  man.  There  came  sickness, 
and  sorrow,  and  sighing — ^there  came  hatred,  crime,  and  decUh. 
Our  Heavenly  Father  saw  this  wretchedness ;  saw  the  triumph 
of  Lucifer  and  his  rebel  army,  and  he  so  loved  the  world  that 
he  sent  his  only  begotten  Son  upon  earth  to  be  a  mau' — ^to 
suffer  poverty,  to  suffer  temptation,  to  suffer  ignominy  and 
death — that  thus  man  might  be  saved  from  eternal  death. 

2.  "This  God,  incarnate  in  humanity,  was  bom  of  a  spotless 
virgin — ^spotless  and  perfect  as  thou  art,  O  Rose,  and  thus  art 
thou  in  thy  beauty  her  emblem,  just  as  one  little  fleeting  sun- 
beam is  a  type  of  the  innumerable  hosts  of  suns  and  worlds 
that  revolve  in  the  heavens. 

8.  "This  God-man,  whose  name  was  Jesus,  was  slain  cruelly 
by  those  whom  he  came  to  save.  He  died  on  the  cross ;  but 
before  he  left  the  world,  he  gave  to  man  his  body  and  blood, 
his  divine  humanity,  as  food  to  nourish  his  soul.    By  this 


..jneittn 


»i»swiaK«aaiMi«ijA. 


136 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


means  he  unites  himself  to  us,  and  we  who  love  him  delight  to 
offer  what  is  richest  and  dearest  in  return  for  his  unbounded 
love ;  for  by  his  death  he  has  snatched  us  from  the  power  of 
the  prince  of  darkness,  and  in  exchange  has  given  us  a  joint 
inheritance  with  him  in  heaven,  where  there  is  no  death  or 
decay."  i 

4.  The  white^robed  daughter  of  men  ceased  speakmg,  or 
rather  her  gentle  eyes,  that  told  this  all  to  me,  were  turned 
away  eastward,  to  where  the  dome  of  the  palace,  where  dwelt 
the  King  of  kings,  glittered  calmly  in  the  sun. 

5.  She  looked  long  and  lovingly ;  and  the  dew,  so  priceless 
and  sweet,  flowed  in  two  pearly  streams  down  her  fair  face  ; 
and  I  came  near  worshipping  her,  because  so  great  tenderness 
seized  my  heart  as  thus  I  gazed  upon  her.  But  the  speaking 
eyes  turned  once  more,  and  said,  "  What  shall  vx  offer  ?"  Up 
from  the  inmost  depths  of  my  heart  swelled  the  fragrant  drops 
that  the  twilight  had  stored  there.  "  What  shall  /  offer  ? "  I 
repeated ;  "I  who  am  so  poor  in  treasure ;  I  who  have  nothing 
but  my  beauty,  my  freshness,  and  my  unsullied  purity  ? 

6.  "What  can  I  offer  to  God  for  his  generous  love  to  thy 
race,  beautiful  maiden  ?  He  gave  the  life  of  a  Man-Ood.  Oh, 
bear  me  to  his  presence  1  I  can  do  no  more  than  give  myself 
to  him  !  Take  me,  then,  dear  maiden — ^I  would  lie  at  his  feet. 
Mayhap  he  may  accept  the  odor  of  my  sacrifice,  and  Jbear  mo 
in  Us  bosom,  where  there  is  no  decay  or  death  1  Hasten,  for 
his  love  draws  me,  and  I  would  tarry  here  no  longer  ! " 

7.  The  young  lover  of  Jesus  severed  me  gently  from  my 
companions,  and  clasping  me  to  her  heart,  bore  me  to  the  feet 
of  her  Saviour.  As  we  passed  forward  to  the  sanctuary,  she 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross — ^because  Jesus  dfed  upon  the  cross 
— ^by  passing  her  hand  from  her  forehead  to  her  breast,  and  then 
from  shoulder  to  shonlder ;  but  before  she  did  this,  she  dipped 
the  tips  of  her  fingers  in  holy  water,  and  some  of  it  fell  upon 
me,  and  I  e^qierienced  sensations  I  had  never  before  imagined. 

8.  As  I  rested  there  at  the  foot  of  the  altar,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  more  life  came  to  me  from  those  sunple  drops  than 
had  ever  been  bestowed  by  the  heaviest  shower  or  gentlest 
rain  before^    The  maiden  now  bent  over  me,  and  her  eyes  wcrv 


AUTOBIOaSAFHT  OF  A  ROSE. 


137 


< 


fixed  tenderly  upon  me,  and  again  her  voice  whispered  to  my 
spirit : 

9.  "O  humble,  gentle,  innocent  rose,"  said  she ;  "thou  who 
art  so  soon  to  pass  away,  let  me  learn  from  thy  devotion,  and 
freely  give  to  my  God  all  that  he  has  so  freely  bestowed  upon 
me ;  however  little,  however  much,  sweet  rose,  thou  hast 
taught  me  to  offer  all  as  the  just  due  of  my  Creator  1 "  Then 
her  white  hand  veiled  her  eyes,  and  her  bosom  heaved,  and,  in 
one  great  tear  that  fell  upon  me,  I  saw  her  beautiful  soul  mir- 
rored.    I  saw  what  I  had  never  dreamed  of  before. 

10.  Lucifer,  the  fallen  angel,  was  striving  to  lure  this  noble 
being  to  disobedience,  that  she  might  be  driven  from  the  par- 
adise of  her  Redeemer's  love.  This  was  why  the  tears  fell ; 
this  was .  why  her  bosom  heaved.  Then  I  saw  an  angel  of 
light  with  his  powerful  wings  sweep  through  the  air,  and  the 
rays  from  his  glorious  brow  dazzled  the  eye  of  the  prince  of 
darkness,  and  he  reeled  away  from  the  presence  of  the  weeping 
daughter  of  earth. 

11.  Oh  1  then  what  an  ocean  of  sweetness  flowed  over  that 
tempted  soul,  and  bore  her  unresisting  to  the  eternal  fountain 
of  all  sweetness.  She  pressed  her  cheek  once  more  to  mine  in 
honor  of  the  mother  of  her  Saviour,  and  music  issued  from  her 
lips,  low  and  soft  as  the  voice  of  a  night-bird. 

12.  "  Thou  gavest  thy  life  to  God,  dear  flower,  unquestion- 
ing. Thou  hadst  no  assurance  of  immortality  in  return.  In 
the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy 
Ghost,  I  bless  thee,  beautiful  flower,  for  I  have  learned  of 
thee  a  lesson  that,  by  the  grace  of  God,  will  earn  for  me  life 
eternal.  Be  my  witness,  humble  Hose  1  be  my  witness,  angels 
hovering  near  me  I  I  give  my  life,  my  love,  my  beiug  through 
all  time8  to  thee,  my  bleeding,  suffering,  patient  Jestis  t  Hold 
me  to  my  pledge,  dear  Saviour,  by  the  might  of  thy  tenderness, 
and  let  me  never  swerve  from  the  integrity  of  my  purpose^ 
hound  this  day  tvith  my  heart  to  thy  dear  cross  I " 

13.  Night  fell  over  us  both,  and  I  slept  with  the  sweet  mur- 
mur of  that  voice  still  vlbratmg  the  chambers  of  my  soul. 
Through  the  season  of  my  freshness,  I  daily  caught  the  incense 
cf  this  madden'e  devotion  arinng  beforo  the  altar ;  and,  by  a 


rmmm 


138 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


seeming  chance,  after  my  leaves  had  withered  and  faded,  I 
was  concealed  from  the  sight  of  the  sacristan,  and  even  for 
months  lay  happily  at  the  feet  of  the  Redeemer  of  the  world. 
Thas  I  witnessed  the  formal  consecration  of  this  maiden  to  the 
will  of  her  chosen  one. 

14.  She  was  arrayed  in  white,  and  her  brow  was  crowned 
with  buds  from  the  rose-tree  that  gave  me  birth.  She  knew 
not  that  I  beheld  her  then,  but  I  felt  that  my  image  had  never 
faded  from  her  heart.  The  pure  folds  of  her  snowy  veil  fell 
over  her  shoulders  like  the  plumage  of  wings  at  rest ;  and  I 
remembered  the  angel  who  had  put  to  flight  the  prince  of  dark- 
ness, and  I  was  sure  he  was  near  her ;  for  her  face  had  become 
like  his,  and  I  think  it  was  because  he  was  so  constantly  at 
her  side,  and  because  she  loved  him  so.  I  think  she  was  the 
earthly  mirror  of  the  heavenly  being  who  protected  her  from 
danger,  and  that  her  face  and  bearing  reflected  his  beauty  and 
grace,  as  the  tear-drop  that  feU  upon  me  from  her  eyes  re- 
flected her  fioul  at  that  moment. 

15.  I  never  saw  this  maiden  more ;  but  I  think  her  angel 
will  lead  her  to  heaven.  Yesterday,  as  I  lay  here,  a  little 
wilted  remnant  of  a  rose,  the  sacristan  raised  me  in  her  fingers, 
and  supposing  me  to  be  a  particle  of  incense  that  had  fallen, 
she  placed  me  in  the  censer  Thus,  when  the  benediction  of 
this  evening  is  pronounced,  I  shall  have  fulfilled  my  mission, 
and  shall  ascend  upon  the  gentle  clouds  that  then  will  over- 
shadow the  tebernaelc  of  the  Most  High. 


19.     WiNTEB. 


THE  scenes  around  us  have  assumed  a  new  and  chilling  ap- 
pearance. The  trees  are  shorn  of  their  foilage,  the  hedges 
are  laid  bare,  the  fields  and  favorite  walks  have  lost  their 
charms,  and  the  ga^rden,  now  that  it  yields  no  perfumes  and 
offers  no  firuits,  is,  like  a  fHend  in  adversity,  forsaken.  The 
tuneful  tribes  are  dumb,  the  cattle  no  longer  play  in  the  mead- 
ows, Uie  north  wind  blows.    **  He  sendeth  abroad  his  icc-Uke 


! 


WINTER. 


139 


I 


(y 


morsels:  who  can  stand  before  his  cold?"    We  msh  in  for 
shelter. 

2.  But  winter  is  not  without  its  nses.  It  aids  the  system 
of  life  and  vegetation  I  it  kills  the  seeds  of  infection ;  it  refines 
the  blood;  it  strengthens  the  nerves;  it  braces  the  whole 
frame.  Snow  is  a  warm  covering  for  the  grass ;  and,  while  it 
defends  the  tender  blades  from  nipping  ff^U,  it  also  nourishes 
their  growth.  When  the  snow  thaws,  it  becomes  a  genial 
moisture  to  the  soil  into  which  it  sinks ;  and  thus  the  glebe 
is  replenished  with  nutriment  to  produce  the  bloom  of  spring 
and  the  bounty  of  adtnmn. 


3.  Winter  has  also  its  pleasures.  I  love  to  hear  the  roar- 
ing of  the  wind ;  I  love  to  see  the  figures  which  the  frost  has 
painted  on  the  glass ;  I  love  to  watch  the  redbreast  with  his 
slender  legs,  standing  at  the  window,  and  knocking  with  his 
bill  to  ask  (  k:  the  crumbs  which  fall  from  the  table.  Is  it  not 
pleasant  to  view  a  landscape  whitened  with  snow  ?  To  gaze 
upon  the  trees  and  hcdges^resscd  in  such  sparkling  lustre  ? 
To  behold  the  rising  sun  laboring  to  pierce  the  morning  fog, 
and  gradually  causing  objects  to  emerge  from  it  by  little  and 
little,  and  appear  in  their  own  forms ;  while  the  mist  rolls  up 
the  side  of  the  hill  and  is  seen  no  more  ? 


vat^yv  "Wnt-^j 


■u^n'JSsTiiilSri^ 


iHHI 


■,r^aMiMir>Mii-|TnwmOB'i"iTi;v. 


140 


THE  THIRD  READER. 


k 

m 
hi 


4.  Winter  is  a  season  in  which  we  should  feel  gratitude  for 
our  comforts.  How  much  more  temperate  is  our  climate  than 
that  of  many  other  countries  !  Think  of  those  who  live  within 
the  polar  circle,  dispersed,  exposed  to  beasts  of  prey,  their 
poor  huts  furnishing  only  wretched  refuge  I  They  endure 
months  of  perpetual  night,  and  by  the  absence  of  heat  almost 
absolute  barrenness  reigns  around.  But  we  have  houses  to 
shelter  us,  and  clothes  to  cover  us,  and  fires  to  warm  us,  and 
beds  to  comfort  us,  and  provisions  to  nourish  us.  How  be- 
coming, in  our  circumstances,  is  gratitude  to  God  ! 

5.  This  season  calls  upon  us  to  exercise  benevolence.  While 
we  are  eujoyingeyery  comfort  which  the  tenderness  of  ProvL 
dence  can  affora,  let  us  think  of  the  indigent  and  the  misera- 
ble. Let  us  think  of  those  whose  poor  hovels  and  shattered 
panes  cannot  screen  them  from  the  piercing  cold.  Let  us 
think  of  the  old  and  the  infirm,  of  the  sick  and  the  diseased. 
Oh,  let  "the  blessing  of  them  that  are  ready  to  perish  come 
upon  us."  Who  would  not  deny'himself  superfluities,  and 
something  more,  that  his  bounty  may  visit  "the  fatherless  and 
the  widows  in  their  affliction." 

6.  This  season  is  instructive  as  an  emblem.  Here  is  the 
picture  of  thy  life :  thy  flowery  spring,  thy  summer  strength, 
thy  sober  autumn,  are  all  hastening  into  winter.  Decay  and 
death  will  soon,  very  soon,  lay  all  waste  I  What  provision 
hast  thou  made  for  the  evil  day  ?  Hast  thou  been  laying  up 
treasure  in  heaven  ?  hast  thou  been  laboring  for  that  wealth 
which  endureth  unto  everlasting  life  ! 

7.  Soon  spring  will  dawn  again  upon  us  with  its  beauty  and 
its  songs.  And  "we,  according  to  his  promise,  look  for  new 
heavens  and  a  new  earth  wherein  dwelleth  righteousness."  No 
winter  there ;  but  we  shall  flourish  in  perpetual  spring,  in  end- 
less youth,  in  everlasting  life  I 


THE  SNOW. 


1^ 


20.   The  Snow^ 

1.  rpHE  snow  I  the  snow  !  'tis  a  pleasant  thing 
-L  To  watch  it  falling,  falling 
Down  upon  earth  with  noiseless  wing 

As  at  some  spirit's  calling ; 
Each  fli(ike  is  a  fairy  parachute, 

From  teeming  clouds  let  down ; 
And  earth  is  still,  and  air  is  mute, 

As  frost's  enchanted  zone. 


2.  The  snow  1  the  snow ! — ^behold  the  trees 
Their  fingery  Ml|lis  stretch  out, 


The  blossoms  of  the  sky  to  seize, 
As  they  duck    nd  dive  about ; 

The  bare  hills  plead  for  a  covering. 
And,  ere  the  gray  twilight, 

Around  their  shoulders  broad  shall  cling 
An  arctic  cloak  of  white. 


142 


THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 


8.  The  snow  1  the  snow ! — alas  I  to  me 

It  speaks  of  far-off  days, 
When  a  boyish  skater,  mingling  fi-ee 

Amid  the  merry  maze ; 
Hethinks  I  see  the  broad  ice  still, 

And  my  nerves  all  jangling  feel, 
Bl;;nding  with  tones^of  voices  shrill 

The  ring  of  the  slider's  heel. 

4.  The  snow  1  the  snow ! — soon  dnsky  night 

Drew  his  murky  curtains  ronnd 
Low  earth,  while  a  star  of  loitre  bri^t 

Feep'd  from  the  blue  profound.    '^^ 
Tet  what  cared  we  for  darkening  lea, 

Or  warning  bell  remote  ? 
With  shout  and  cry  we  scudded  by, 

And  found  the  bliss  we  sought. 

6.  The  snow  I  the  snow  t — ^'twas  ours  to  wage^ 

How  oft,  a  munic  war. 
Each  white  ball  tossing  in  wild  rage, 

That  left  a  gorgeous  scar ; 
While  doublets  dark  were  powdered  o'er 

Till  darkness  none  could  find, 
And  valorous  chiefs  had  wounds  before,. 

And  caitiff  chiefs  behind. 

6.  The  snow  1  the  snow  I — I  see  him  yet, 

That  piled-up  giant  grim, 
To  startle  horse  and  traveller  set, 

With  Titan  gui;h  of  limb. 
We  hoped,  oh,  ice-ribb'd  Winter  bright  I 

Thy  sceptre  could  have  screened  him ; 
But  traitor  Thaw  stole  forth  by  night, 

And  cruelly  guillotined  him  I 

• 

t.  The  snow !  the  snow  t — Lo  I  Eve  reveals 
Her  starr'd  map  to  the  moon, 


USES  OF  WATEB. 

An!  o'er  hush  d  earth  a  radiance  steals 
More  blabu  than  that  of  noon ; 

The  fur-robed  genii  of  the  Pole 
Pance  o'er  our  mountains  white; 

Chain  up  the  billows  as  they  roll, 
And  pearl  the  caves  with  light. 

6.  The  snow  1  the  snow ! — It  brings  to  mind 

A  thousand  happy  things ; 
And  but  one  sad  one — 'tis  to  find 

Too  snro  that  Time  hath  wings  1 
Oh,  ever  sweet  is  sight  or  sound, 

That  tells  of  long  ago, 
And  I  gaze  around  with  thoughts  profound, 

Upon  the  falling  snow. 


143 


<s] 


21.   Uses  of  Water. 

HOW  common,  and  yet  how  beautiful  and  how  pure,  is  a 
drop  of  water  I  See  it,  as  it  issues  from  the  rock  to  sup- 
ply the  spring  and  the  stream  below.  See  how  its  meander- 
ings  through  the  plains,  and  its  torrents  over  the  cliffs,  add 
to  the  richness  and  the  beauty  of  the  landscape.  Look  into 
a  factory  standing  by  a  waterfall, '  in  which  every  drop  is 
faithful  to  perform  its  part,  and  hear  the  groaning  and  rust- 
ling of  the  wheels,  the  clattering  of  shuttles,  and  the  buzz  of 
spindles,  which,  under  the  direction  of  their  fair  attendants, 
are  supplying  myriads  of  fair  purchasers  with  fabrics  from  the 
cotton-plant,  the  sheep,  and  the  silkworm. 

2.  Is  any  one  so  stupid  as  not  to  admire  the  splendor  of 
the  rainbow,  or  so  ignorant  as  not  to  know  that  it  is  pro- 
duced by  drops  of  water,  as  they  break  away  iirom'  the  clouds 
which  had  confined  them,  and  are  making  a  quick  visit  to  our 
earth  to  renew  its  verdure  and  increase  its  animation  ?  How 
usefid  is  the  gentle  dew,  in  its  nightly  visits,  to  allay  the 
scorching  heat  of  a  summer's  sun  ! 

3.  And  the  autumn's  frost,  how  beaatifiiUy  it  bedecks  th« 


lU 


THB  THIRD  REAPER. 


I 


trees,  the  shnibs,  and  the  grass :  though  it  strips  them  of  their 
sammer's  verdure,  and  warns  them  that  they  must  soon  re- 
ceive the  buffetings  of  the  winter's  tempest !  This  is  but 
water,  which  has  given  up  its  transparency  for  its  beautiful 
whiteness  and  its  elegant  crystals.  The  snow,  too, — what  is 
that  but  these  same  pure  drops,  thrown  into  crystals  by  win- 
ter's icy  hand  ?  and  does  not  the  first  summer's  sun  return 
them  to  the  same  limpid  drops  ? 

4.  The  majestic  river,  and  the  boundless  ocean, — what  are 
they?  Are  they  not  made  of  drops  of  water?  How  the 
river  steadily  pursues  its  course  from  the  mountain's  top, 
down  the  declivity,  over  the  cliff,  and  though  the  plain,  tak- 
ing with  it  every  thing  in  its  course  1  How  many  mighty 
ships  does  the  ocean  float  upon  its  bosom  1  How  many  fishes 
sport  in  its  waters  1  How  does  it  form  a  lodging-place  for 
the  Amazon,  the  Mississippi,  the  Danube,  the  Rhine,  the  Gan- 
ges, the  Lena,  and  the  Hoang  Ho  I 

5.  How  piercing  are  these  pure  limpid  drops !  How  do 
they  find  their  way  into  the  depths  of  the  earth,  and  even  the 
solid  rock  I  How  many  thousand  streams,  hidden  from  our 
view  by  mountain  masses,  are  steadily  pursuing  their  courses 
deep  from  the  surface  which  forms  our  standing-place  for  a 
few  short  days  I  In  the  air,  too,  how  it  diffuses  itself  I 
Where  can  a  particle  of  air  be  found,  which  does  not  contain 
an  atom  of  water  ? 

6.  How  much  would  a  famishmg  man  give  for  a  few  of  these 
pure  limpid  drops  of  water  I  And  where  do  we  use  it  in  our 
daily  sustenance  ?  or  rather,  where  do  we  not  use  it  ?  Which 
portion  of  the  food  that  we  have  taken  during  our  lives,  did 
not  contain  it  ?  What  part  of  our  body,  which  limb,  which 
organ,  is  not  moistened  with  this  same  faithfiil  servant  ?  How 
is  our  blood,  that  free  liquid,  to  circulate  through  our  veins 
without  it  ? 

t.  How  gladly  does  the  faithjful  horse,  or  the  patient  ox, 
in  his  toilsome  journey,  arrive  at  the  water's  brink  1  And 
the  faithful  dog,  patiently  following  his  master's  track, — how 
eagerly  does  he  lap  the  water  from  the  clear  fountain  he  meets 
in  his  way  I 


x^ 


N^ 


THE  DTINO  CHRISTIAN  TO  HIS  SOUL. 


145 


8.  Whose  heart  ought  not  to  overflow  with  gratitude  to 
the  abandant  Giver  of  this  pure  liquid,  which  his  own  hand, 
has  deposited  in  the  deep,  and  diffused  through  the  floating 
air  and  the  solid  earth  ?  Is  it  the  farmer,  whose  fields,  by 
the  gentle  dew  and  the  abundant  rain,  bring  forth  fatness  ? 
Is  it  the  mechanic,  whose  saw,  lathe,  spindle,  and  shuttle  are 
moved  by  this  faithful  servant  ? 

9.  Is  it  the  merchant,  on  his  return  from  the  noise  and  the 
perplexities  of  business,  to  the  table  of  his  family,  richly  sup- 
plied with  the  varieties  and  the  luxuries  of  the  four  quarters 
of  the  globe,  produced  by  the  abundant  rain,  and  transported 
across  the  mighty  but  yielding  ocean  ? 

10.  Is  it  the  physician,  on  his  administering  to  his  patient 
some  gentle  beverage,  or  a  more  active  healer  of  the  disease 
which  threatens  ?  Is  it  ^^he  priest,  whose  profession  it  is  to 
make  others  feel — and  that  by  feeling  himself,  that  the  slight- 
est favor  and  the  richest  blessing  are  from  the  same  source, 
and  from  the  same  abundant  and  constant  Giver?  Who,  that 
still  has  a  glass  of  water  and  a  crumb  of  bread,  is  not  wo.- 
grateful  to  complain  ? 


The  DtJNQt  Christian  to  his  Soul. 

1.  TTITAL  spark  of  heavenly  flame, 
•     Quit,  oh,  quit  this  mortal  frame  ! 
Trembling,  hoping,  lingering,  flying. 
Oh,  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying  I.. 
Cease,  fond  Nature,  cease  thy  strife. 
And  let  me  languish  into  life. 


Hark  I  they  whisper ;  angels  say, 
Sister  Spirit,  come  away ;  ^, 
What  J5  this  absorbs  me  quite  ? 
SteaUi  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight, 
Drowns  my  spirits,  draws  my  breath : 
Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  death  ? 
7 


3t<MPt^^''**^w»f'''.^^*' 


«»Ml!ii^ 


^im*!,iJtati*tf^M^itimliimt 


146  THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 

8.  The  world  recedes ;  it  disappears  I 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes  1  my  ears 

With  sounds  seraphic  ring. 
Lend,  lend  your  wings ;  I  moant,  I  fly  I 
O  Grave  I  where  is  thy  victory  1 

O  Death  I  where  is  thy  sting  I 


22.   FuGHT  INTO  Egypt. 

HEROD  was  impatient  for  the  sages'  return  firom  Bethle- 
hem, till  finding  they  had  slighted  the  charge  he  gave 
them,  and  were  gone  home  another  way,  he  was  hurried  into 
a  transport  of  anger,  which  deluged  the  country  with  innocent 
blood.  By  an  act,  the  most  inhuman  that  ever  was  done  by 
the  worst  of  tyrants,  he  has  shown  the  world  what  his  inten- 
tion was,  when  he  so  carefully  questioned  the  sages,  and  so 
strictly  ordered  them  to  bring  back  an  account  of  the  child 
they  were  in  quest  of. 

2.  But  God,  who  laughs  at  man's  presumptuous  folly,  si- 
lently defeated  the  tyrant's  malice,  and  made  his  bloody 
cruelty  instrumental  to  the  glory  of  the  innocent.  An  augel 
in  the  night  informed  Joseph  of  the  murderous  design  that 
Herod  had  upon  the  child's  life,  and  admonished  him  to  save 
both  him  and  the  mother  by  a  speedy  flight  into  Egypt. 
Joseph  in  this  instance  is  a  perfect  model  of  that  prompt 
obedience  which  every  Christian  owes  to  the  commands  of 
God.  He  was  commaaded  to  rise  that  moment,  to  leave  his 
native  country,  and  fly  <jff  with  the  child  and  his  mother,  not 
towards  the  sages,  or  u<  any  friendly  nation,  but  into  Egypt, 
amidst  the  idolatrout  and  natural  enemies  of  the  Jewish 
people. 

3.  The  tender  age  of  the  infant  and  the  frail  delicacy  of 
the  virgin  mother,  ieen  ^i  to  require  every  comfort  that  his 
own  private  dwelling  could  hav<  afforded.  But  that  slender 
comfort  was  uo  be  given  up ;  it  W4fi  dark  night,  and  no  time 


,i 


FUOHT  INTO  EGYPT. 


147 


/ 


to  be  lost  in  making  proyisibn  for  a  long  and  faborious  journey. 
The  faithful  guardian  of  the  Word  Incarnate  rose  upon  the 
first  notice  that  was  given  him,  punctually  fulfilled  every  tittle 
of  the  order,  took  the  child  and  his  mother,  and  set  off  for 
Egypt,  uncertain  when,  or  whether  he  should  ever,  return  or 
not.  The  love  he  bore  to  Jesus,  the  desire  he  had  of  serving 
him  to  the  extent  of  his  power,  softened  every  hardship,  and 
made  him  forget  the  labors  of  an  unlooked-for  banishment. 

4.  The  divine  Jesus  might  have  rendered  himself  invisible, 
or  by  a  visible  exertion  of  his  power  might  have  disarmed 
Herod,  as  he  did  Pharaoh  in  ancient  times';  but  he  choose  to 
fly,  for  the  encouragement  of  those  who  were  afterwards  to 
suffer  banishment  for  his  sake ;  by  his  own  example  he  would 
instruct  his  followers,  that  in  the  heat  of  persecution  they 
may  laudably  fly  to  save  their  lives,  in  hopes  of  some  future 
good.  ■ 

5.  Herod  began  to  rage  with  all  the  violence  that  jealousy, 
heigntened  by  disappointment,  could  inspire.  With  a  cruelty 
that  would  have  shocked  the  most  savage  barbarian,  he  gave 
orders  for  every  male  child  that  had  been  born  within  the  two 
last  years,  in  and  about  Bethlehem,  to  be  killM.  To  such 
barbarous  shifts  was  the  ambitions  monarch  driven  by  his 
politics  I  An  innocent  babe,  he  knew  not  who,  made  him 
tremble  uiton  his  throne ;  he  tned  his  utmost  skill  to  find  him 
out,  he  (Iprached  the  country  with  innocent  blood  to  make  sure 
of  his  ^lwtnicti(Hi,  he  filled  the  air  with  the  shrieks  and  lamen- 
tatioQis  of  disconsolate  mothers,  that  he  might  draw  out  the 
enjoyment  of  a  crown  to  a  somewhat  greater  length. 

6.  But  no  honors  porchased  by  such  crimes  could  give  any 
real  enjoyment.  His  cruelty  heaped  confusion  upon  himself, 
while  it  opened  the  gate  of  happiness  to  those  who  felt  its 
stroke :  nor  could  it  rage  beyond  the  bounds  that  God  had 
aet  it ;  amidst  the  thousand^  of  slaughtered  innocents,  He 
alone  escaped,  who  alone  was  aimed  at. 

t.  No  malicious  efforts  of  the  wicked  can  ever  fhistrate  the 
decrees  of  God ;  their  hatred  or  their  love  become,  as  he 
pleases  to  direct,  the  instruments  of  his  holy  designs ;  »he 
whole  world,  combined  with  all  the  powers  of  darkness,  can 


148 


THE  TEUBD  BEADEB. 


never  stop  the  execation  of  what  an  omnipotent  Providence 
has  once  decreed. 

8.  If  once  assured  of  the  divine  will,  we  have  but  to  follow 
it  without  fear :  if  in  the  station  of  our  duty  we  have  any  thing 
to  suffer,  we  suffer  for  justice'  sake.  Herod's  cruelty  became 
the  glory  of  the  innocents :  his  sword  could  hurt  their  bodies 
only ;  their  souls  were  sanctified  by  the  effusion  of  then:  blood ; 
their  memory  through  every  age  is  celebrated  on  earth ;  they 
reign  eternally  with  God  in  heaven. 


i 


r  ^ 


23.   The  Fbeed  Bibd. 

1        n  ETURN,  return,  my  bird  ! 

i^  I  have  dress'd  thy  cage  with  flowers, 
Tis  lovely  as  a  violet  bank 
In  the  heart  of  forest  bowers. 

2.  "  I  am  free,  I  am  free, — I  return  no  more  I 
The  weary  time  of  the  cage  is  o'er  1 
TIitt<ough  the  rolling  clouds  I  can  soar  on  high, 
The  sky  is  around  me — the  blue  bright  sky  1 

3.  "The  hills  lie  beneath  me,  spread  far  and  clear. 
With  their  glowing  heath-flowers  and  bounding  deer, 
I  see  the  waves  flash  on  the  sunny  shore — 

I  am  fi-ee,  I  am  free, — I  return  no  more  1 " 


wmmt 


THE  FREED  BIRD. 


149 


denoe 

follow 
thing 
icame 
oodles 
tlood; 
;  they 


leer, 


4.  Alas,  alas,  my.bird  i 

Why  seek'st  thou  to  be  free  ? 
Wert  thou  not  blest  in  thy  little  bower, 
When  thy  song  breathed  nought  but  glee  ? 

5.  "  Did  my  song  of  summer  breathe  nought  but  glee  ? 
Did  the  voice  of  the  captive  seem  sweet  to  thee  ? 

^  Oh  !  hadst  thou  known  its  deep  meaning  well. 
It  had  tales  of  a  burning  heart  to  tell. 

6.  From  a  dream  of  the  forest  that  music  sprang, 
Through  i(s  notes  the  peal  of  a  torrent  rang ; 
And  its  dying  fall,  when  it  soothed  thee  best, 
Sigh'd  for  wild  flowers  and  a  leafy  nest." 

t.      Was  it  with  thee  thus,  my  bird  ? 

Yet  thine  eye  flash'd  clear  and  bright  ? 
I  have  seen  the  glance  of  the  sudden  joy 
In  its  quick  and  dewy  light. 

8.  "It  flash'd  with  the  fire  of  a  tameless  race. 
With  the  soul  of  the  wild  wood,  my  native  place  I 
With  the  spirit  that  panted  through  heaven  to  soar— 
Woo  me  not  back — I  retm'u  no  more  I 

9.  "  My  home  is  high,  amidst  rocking  trees, 
My  kindred  things  are  the  star  and  breeze. 
And  the  fount  uncheck'd  in  its  lonely  play. 
And  the  odors  that  wander  afar — away  I" 

10       Farewell,  farewell,  thou  bird  I 
I  have  call'd  on  spirits  gone, 
And  it  may  be  they  joy  like  thee  to  part, 
Like  thee  that  wert  all  my  own. 

»• 
11.  "  If  they  were  captives,  and  pined  like^^ne. 

Though  love  might  calm  them,  they  joy'd  to  be  free  ; 
They  sprung  from  the  earth  with  a  burst  o^^wwer, 
To  the  strength  of  their  wings,  to  theur  triumph's  boor. 


_  r;  jjHOffmiT' 


150 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


l2xl*Call  them  not  back  when  the  ch^  is  riven, 
^^^Vheu  the  way  of  the  pinion  is  all  through  heaven. 
Farewell !    With  my  song  through  the  clouds  I  soar, 
I  pierce  the  blue  skies — I  am  earth's  no  more  ! " 


24  Beheading  op  St.  John. 

ALTHOUGH  the  doctrine  of  our  blessed  Saviour  was  so 
pure  in  its  principles,  so  conformable  to  reason,  so  con- 
firmed by  miracles,  and  so  pleasing  in  its  promises  of  eternal 
glory,  yet  few  embraced  it.  A  general  skepticism  and  hard- 
ness of  heart  prevailed  in  the  cities  of  Judea,  and  in  no  city 
more  than  in  that  of  Nazareth. 

2.  It  was  natural  to  imagine  that  the  Nazarenes  would 
have  thought  themselves  in  some  sort  honored  by  the  fame  of 
one  who  had  lived  and  grown  up  among  them,  and  that  they 
would  have  cherished  him  as  the  most  valuable  of  their  citi- 
zens. Their  behavior  was,  however,  the  very  opposite.  They 
had  seen  and  conversed  with  him  from  his  youth ;  they  knew 
no  learning  that  he  had  acquired ;  in  his  person  they  discovered 
nothing  that  set  him  above  the  common  level ;  in  his  mother 
and  relations  they  beheld  no  title  that  made  him  superior  to* 
the  poorer  class  of  the  people. 

3.  To  his  doctrine,  therefore,  they  would  give  no  credit,  nor 
would  they  allow  his  miracles  which  they  had  not  seen.  The 
great  reputation  which  Jesus  had  acquired  among  others  made 
them  jealous,  and  their  jealousy  grew  into  a  violent  hatred 
against  him. 

4.  They  laid  hands  upon  him,  and  led  him  to  the  steep 
point  of  the  rock  on  which  their  town  was  built,  with  an  inten- 
tion to  throw  him  headlong  down.  But  the  hour  for  Jesus  to 
die  was  not  yet  comie,  and  no  human  malice  could  advance  it. 
He  slipped  out  of  their  hands,  and  walked  away  through  the 
midst  of  them. 

5.  This  perverse  incredulity  of  the  Nazarenes  hindered  Jesus 
from  working  any  miracles  among  them,  excepting  the  cure  of 


DEOOLIATION  OF  ST.  JOHN. 


151 


some  of  their  sick,  which  he  did  by  imposing  his  hands  npon 
them.  On  his  return  from  Nazareth,  he  was  informed  ol^ohn 
the  Baptist's  death. 

6.  A  short  time  before  this  St.  John  had  been  cast. into 
prison  on  account  of  the  reprimand  he  gave  to  King  Herod, 
for  his  incestuous  connection  with  Herodias,  the  wife  of  his 
brother  Philip.  Herodias  had  often  solicited  the  king  to  have 
him  put  to  ceath,  and  the  king  as  often  refused  to  consent, 
not  only  from  a  principle  of  esteem  for  the  holy  man,  but  like- 
wise from  a  f  jar  of  the  people's  resentment,  for  they  considered 
the  Baptist  as  a  wonderful  prophet. 

7.  But  Herod's  imprudence  betrayed  him  soon  after  to  com- 
mit the  bloody  deed.  He  celebrated  his  birthday  with  great 
pomp  and  splendor ;  a  grand  entertainment  was  prepared, 
and  the  chief  men  of  Galilee  were  invited  to  attend ;  the 
daughter  of  Herodias  was  introduced  before  the  company,  and 
desired  to  dance. 

8.  The  manner  of  her  performance  so  pleased  the  king,  that 
he  rashly  promised  upon  oath  to  give  whatsoever  she  should 
ask,  though  it  were  half  his  kingdom.  The  girl  immediately 
left  the  room  to  consult  her  mother  what  she  should  ask. 
"  Go  and  ask  for  the  head  of  John  the  Baptist/'  replied  the 
adulteress.    . ' 

9.  The  girl  ran  back  to  Herod,  and  desired  that  he  would 
forthwith  give  her  on  a  dish  the  head  of  John  the  Baptist. 
Struck  at  the  unnatural  request,  the  king  was  sorry  for  the 
rash  promise  he  had  made,  but,  out  of  respect  to  the  company, 
resolved  to  keep  his  oath,  not  to  displease  the  daughter  of 
Herodias.  He  therefore  ordered  an  executioner  t6  go  forth- 
with to  the  prison,  and  cut  off  the  Baptist's  head.  The  head 
was  given  in  a  dish  to  the  girl,  and  the  girl  presented  it  to 
her  mother. 

10.  Thus  was  the  great  precursor  of  our  Lord  impiously 
slain  in  the  vigor  of  life ;  thus  was  John  murdered  by  the 
sword  of  Herod,  who  had  always  admired  and  esteemed  him 
for  his  purity  of  doctrine  and  sanctity  of  morals.  Herod  fell 
not  all  at  buce  into  the  enormity  of  guilt ;  by  gradual  steps  he 
had  advanced  towards  the  depth  of  crime ;  one  excess  had 


^**^3i^*«*»frr-i»»HA>« 


i\  ! 


152 


THE  THIia>  BEADEB. 


led  him  on  to  another;  lustful  pasdon  opened  the  way  to 
incest,  and  incest  plunged  him  into  murder. 

11.  Herod  was  permitted  to  take  away  the  life  of  St.  John 
the  B' vtist,  greater  than  whom  no  phophet  had  eTer  risen 
amoit .,  che  sons  of  women. 

12.  The  Ufe  of  that  holy  man  was  sacrificed  to  the  capricious 
revenge  of  a  wicked  woman ;  it  was  sacrificed  for  a  durice. 
Hence  we  see,  says  St.  Gregory,  in.  what  light  we  are  to  con- 
sider this  mortal  life,  which  is  so  liable  to  misfortunes,  and  so 
constantly  harassed  by  the  suspicions,  by  the  hatred,  and  the 
slanders  of  wicked  men. 

13.  It  is  to  a  future  life  that  we  should  constantly  look  up ; 
a  life  which  neither  the  tongue  of  slander,  nor  the  sword  of 
persecution  can  affect.  Tyrants  may  rage  and  threaten ;  pain 
may  crumble  these  mortal  bodies  into  dust;  but  a  passing 
death  will  open  us  an  entrance  into  that  heavenly  kingdom, 
where  the  blessed  know  no  change  and  fear  no  decay. 


fh 


25.   Satukdat  Afternoon. 

1.  T  LOVE  to  look  on  a  scene  like  this, 
JL  Of  wild  and  careless  play. 

And  persuade  myself  that  I  am  not  old, 
And  my  locks  are  not  yet  gray ; 

For  it  stirs  the  blood  in  an  old  man's  heart, 
And  makes  his  pulses  fly. 

To  catch  the  thrill  of  a  happy  voice, 
And  the  light  of  a  pleasant  eye. 

2.  I  have  walk'd  the  wwld  for  fourscore  years : 

And  they  say  that  I  am  old, 
That  my  heart  is  ripe  for  the  reaper  Death, 

And  my  years  are  well-nigh  told. 
It  is  very  true  ;  it  is  very  true  ; 

I'm  old,  and  "I  'bide  my  time :" 
But  my  heart  will  leap  at  a  scene  like  this, 

And  I  half  renew  my  prime. 


SATURDAY  APTEBNOON. 

8.  Play  on,  play  on ;  I  am  with  you  there, 
In  the  midst  of  your  merry  ring ; 
I  can  feel  the  thrill  of  the  daring  jump, 
And  the  rush  of  the  breathless  swing. 


153 


!.:v 


I  hide  with  you  in  the  fragrant  hay, 
And  I  whoop  the  smother'd  call. 

And  my  feet  slip  up  on  the  seedy  floor, 
And  I  care  not  for  the  fall. 

{.  I  am  willing  to  die  when  my  time  shall  come. 
And  I  shall  be  glad  to  go  ; 


s  I 


s 


I 


X54b  THE  THIRD  READER. 

For  the  world  at  best  is  a  weary  place, 
And  mj  pulse  is  getting  low  ; 

Bat  the  grave  is  dark,  and  the  heart  will  fail 
In  treading  its  gloomy  way ; 

An^      wiles  my  heart  from  its  dreariness, 
'j    i^.d  the  yonng  so  gay. 


t 


26.  Learning  and  Aooompushments  not  inoonsibtent 
WITH  Good  Housekeepino. 

[Exjilanatorjf  Aotle.— Mr.  Benny  tells  this  story;  Haroella  Is  Mr. 
Benny's  wife ;  Clara  is  their  daughter.  Justin  and  Laura  are  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Huhert,  who  have  just  come  on  a  visit  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Benny,  and  Mary  is  their  daughter.  Aunt  Robert  is  the  aunt  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Benny.}  ; 

MARY  has  accompanied  her  parents;  her  first  appearance 
gives  a  painfiil  impression.  She  is  smaU,  thin,  and  very 
sallow :  almost  ugly.  Laura  and  Justin  {aresented  her  to  me 
without  a  word,  and  during  the  first  two  days,  I  took  scarcely 
any  notice  of  her ;  but  the  other  morning,  I  heard  her  con- 
versing in  German  with  her  father ;  and  I  know  that  she  is 
acquamted  with  the  English  and  Spanish  languages. 

2.  Marcella  obliged  her  to  seat  herself  at  the  piano ;  and 
we  soon  perceived  that  she  has  already  far  outstripped  her 
mother.  She  has  also  learned  all  that  can  be  taught  to  one 
of  her  age,  of  geography,  and  natural  and  political  history. 
Clara  is  in  a  state  of  bewilderment  at  suet  an  amount  of 
learning,  and  I  am  still  more  surprised  at  so  much  modesty. 

3.  The  latter,  however,  does  not  soften  Aunt  Robert ;  who, 
when  she  was  informed  of  the  number  of  Mary's  acquirements, 
only  shook  her  head.  Aunt  Robert's  prejudices,  on  that 
point,  are  not  to  be  overcome.  She  is  suspicious,  almost  to 
hostility,  of  all  those  who  are,  what  she  styles,  learned  women. 
According  to  her,  literary  studies  are  perfectly  incompatible 
with  household  duties.    No  one  can  understand  orthography 


V 


t 


^^ 


LBikBNINa  AND  ACGOMPUSHHENTS. 


155 


and  backstitch  too,  or  speak  any  other  langaage  but  oar 
mother  tongue,  and  superintend  a  roast 

4.  "  Oh,  yes  I  I  have  seen  your  little  prodigies  before,"  she 
said  to  Marcella,  yesterday,  "who  talk  about  revolutions  in 
China  with  their  stockings  in  holes ;  who  read  poetry,  and  yet 
cannot  understand  the  receipt  of  a  pudding ;  who  will  describe 
with  accuracy  the  costume  of  the  African  savage,  and  do  not 
know  how  to  trim  a  cap  !  do  not  talk  to  me  of  such  women, 
my  dear  girl ;  the  very  best  they  are  good  for,  is  to  be  lodge- 
keepers  to  the  French  Academy." 

5.  Notwithstanding  these  strong  prejudices,  she  treats  Mary 
like  everybody  else ;  that  is  to  say,  with  her  usual  rude,  fa- 
miliar kindness ;  for  Aunt  Robert  compares  herself  to  a  thorny 
gooseberr^  bush :  to  get  at  the  fruit,  people  must  not  mind  a 
few  scratches. 

6.  For  the  rest,  these  peculiarities  do  not  seem  to  disturb 
the  young  girl  in  the  least:  she  laughs  at  the  old  lady's 
whims,  and  is  the  first  to  offer  to  carry  her  bag,  or  fetch  her 
a  ^footstool.  I  have  reason  to  believe  the  good  aunt  is  very 
fond  of  her.  "After  all,"  she  said,  the  other  day,  "there 
really  is  good  in  the  child,  and  it  is  not  her  fault  if  she  has 
been  taught  more  grammar  than  cookery." 

7.  Consequently,  she  has  been  very  anxious  to  make  her 
feel  the  inconveniences  of  her  education.  Yesterday  she  in- 
vited us  to  dine  with  the  Huberts  at  her  house,  and  begged 
Mary  to  come  early  and  assist  her  in  her  preparations.  De- 
spite the  ironical  manner  in  which  the  latter  invitation  was 
given,  it  was  accepted. 

8.  Aunt  Robert  was  determined  to  display  before  the  eyes 
of  the  little  blue-stocking  all  the  splendor  of  her  house-keep- 
ing royalty ;  and  Mary  found  her  enveloped  in  a  large  apron 
with  an  ample  bib,  her  sleeves  turned  up  above  her  elbows, 
busy  making  a  favorite  dish. 

9.  Now  in  the  opinion  of  the  best  judges,  this  dish  was  the 
pinnacle  of  glory  in  Aunt  Roberts'  culinary  art. 

She  beckoned  to  Mary  to  approach,  and  after  explaining 
to  her  the  particular  merits  and  difficulties  of  her  dish,  pro- 
ceeded with  her  cookery. 


;aaii»MM«k<K  r 


156 


THE  THIBD  RFiADWB. 


:!' 


10.  "You  see,  my  dear,^  mixing,  in  her  motherly  way, 
moral  precepts  and  practical  explanations,  "  one  of  the  chief 
duties  of  a  woman  is  to  make  the  most  of  every  thing. — 
(Keep  the  whites  of  the  eggs  for  another  occasion.) — Life  is 
made  for  something  more  than  leammg  to  conjugate  the  verbs 
I  walk,  or  I  talk;  to  assure  to  those  around  us  health  and 
comfort — (don't  put  in  too  much  lemon  juice); — ^when  one 
makes  it  a  principle  to  be  useful — (the  crust  is  beginning  to 
rise), — ^it  is  sufficient  to  keep  peace  and  a  good  conscience — 
(we  put  the  whole  into  a  moidd), — and  we  live  happily — {in 
the  Dutch  oven)." 

11.  Mary  smilingly  looked  on,  not  a  little  bewildered  by  the 
odd  mixture  of  philosophy  and  cookery ;  and  this  time,  alas  f 
the  first  most  certainly  injured  the  second ;  for  a  thing  unheard 
of  before,  just  when  Aunt  Robert,  being  of  opinion  that'  it 
was  done  enough,  with  serene  confidence  opened  the  oven 
door,  intendmg  to  display  before  her  pupil's  eyes  her  sparkling 
pyramid,  she  found  nothhig  but  a  crumbled  ruin  blackened  by 
the  fire  I 

12.  The  disappointment  was  the  greater,  because  complete- 
ly unexpected.  Besides,  dinner-time  was  drawing  near,  and 
the  dish  would  have  taken  more  time  to  make  again  than  she 
could  spare 


I 


27.   Ibassisq  and  Aooompushments — cmtinued. 


AUNT  ROBERT  had  to  go  out  and  make  several  purchases, 
to  look  after  the  servant,  a  new  hand  whose  experience 
she  more  than  doubted,  in  uncovering  the  drawing-room  fur- 
niture and  laying  the  cloth.  She  was  speaking  with  resigned 
repugnance  of  resorting  to  the  direful  extremity  of  applying  to 
the  neighboring  pastry-«ook,  when  Mary  quietly  proposed  to 
replace  the  missing  dish  with  one  of  her  own  making. 

2.  Aunt  Robert  actually  started  with  surprise. 

"  What  1  my  dear  child  1  do  you  know  what  you  are  say- 
ing ?''  she  asked ;  "  is  it  possible  that  you  can  make  any  thing 


LBABNmO  AMD  ACCOMPLISHMENTS. 


167 


^ 


fit  to  eat?  jon,  who  can  speak  all  the  languages  of  the  Tower 
of  Babel  1" 

"  It  is  a  family  pudding,  which  always  succeeds,  and  does 
not  take  long  to  make,"  replied  the  young  girl. 

3.  "  Pudding  ! "  repeated  Aunt  Robert  a  little  contempt- 
uously. "  Ah  I  I  understand ;  it  is  some  foreign  dish,  like 
what  they  make  in  England.  Very  well,  Mvts  Huburt  I  let 
:us  see  what  you  will  produce ;  the  servant  shall  supply  you 
with  any  ingredients  you  may  require." 

4.  But  Mary  assured  her  she  had  all  she  wanted,  and  set 
about  it  without  more  delay.  Half  an  hour  after,  when  Aunt 
Robert  returned  from  making  her  purchases,  she  found  the 
pudding  ready  for  the  table. 

5.  Its  appearance  was  such  as  to  strike  the  eye  of  a  judge. 
After  examining  it  well,  and  inhaling  the  odor,  she  ga^e  a 
little  nod  of  satisfaction.  "There  is  nothing  to  be  said  against 
its  looks,"  said  she.  "  I  should  only  like  now  to  see  how  it 
tastes ;  for  you  know  '  that  the  proof  of  the  pudding  lies  in 
the  eating.'  However,  I  see,  my  dear  child,  you  are  not 
without  usefulness ;  now  come  and  help  me  with  the  dessert.'' 

6.  But  a  fresh  trouble  arose.  The  servant  had  broken  one 
of  the  china  baskets,  indispensable  to  the  service ;  and  there 
remained  only  the  broken  pieces  on  the  sideboard.  Aunt 
Robert,  accustomed  to  the  old-fashioned  arrangement,  could 
do  nothing  without  her  basket;  but  Mary,  who  with  her 
mother  was  obliged  to  resort  to  all  sorts  of  expedients  in  their 
humble  cottage,  where  the  richness  of  taste  hid  the  poverty  of 
their  means,  declared  she  could  arrange  it  all.  She  ran  to  the 
garden,  whence  she  gathered  leaves,  flowers,  and  fruits,  with 
which  she  dressed  the  table,  and  hid  the.discrepancy  occasioned 
by  the  missing  basket. 

7.  Tlie  fine  damask,  Aunt  Robert's  especial  pride,  the  old- 
fashioned  crystal,  the  many-colored  china,  and  antique  plate, 
were  all  most  elegantly  and  tastefully  arranged ;  and  then 
Mary  added  all  the  graceful  fancies  which  impart  so  much  to 
the  elegance  of  a  well-arranged  table,  down  from  the  butter  in 
shells  to  bouquets  of  radishes.  Aunt  Robert  was  bewildered ; 
bat  she  was  still  more  so,  when  all  the  dishes,  being  served  at 


i: 


158 


THE  THIRD  BEAOEB. 


:i  1' 


1 1      ?;■ 


oaoc,  covered  the  table,  and,  as  she  saii,  "  iransffKined  her 
homely  dinner  into  a  Bclshazzar's  feast.'' 

8.  "  Ah,  yoa  sly  little  puss  1 "  she  exclaimed,  as,  thoronghly 
conquered,  she  warmly  embraced  her;  "who  would  have 
thought  there  was  all  this  hidden  in  yoa  t"  The  padding  was 
nnanimously  pronoanced  excellent ;  and  Aunt  Robert  did  not 
fail  to  relate  the  history  of  her  favorite  dish. 

9.  From  this  moment,  her  (pinion  of  Mary  underwent  a 
striking  change.  She  owned  to  me  in  p  half  whisper  at 
dessert,  that  she  had  been  too  severe;  and  that  our  friend 
had  not  neglected  the  "essential"  as  much  as  she  had  at  first 
imagined.  Still  she  was  strongly  opposed  to  "the  gift  of 
tongues,"  which  she  maintained,  could  be  available  only  to 
the  Apostles. 

10.  At  last  we  rose  from  the  table,  and  adjourned  to  the 
Kttle  sitting-room ;  where,  while  waiting  the  advent  of  tea, 
each  lady  brought  oat  her  sewing  or  embroidery,  and  Aunt 
Robert  sought  the  mittens  she  was  knitting.  Unfortunately, 
they  had  not  escaped  the  general  disturbance ;  a  needle  had 
fallen  out,  which  was  one  of  the  little  domestic  miseries  our 
worthy  aunt  felt  most  acutely.  She  uttered  a  slight  exclama- 
tion of  despair,  and  went  off  In  search  of  her  spectacles ;  but 
on  her  return  she  found  her  knitting  in  the  hands  of  Mary. 

11.  "Ah  1  you  little  puss,  what  are  you  about  there  1"  she 
cried  in  alarm.  Mary  returned  her  the  mitten  with  a  smile, 
and,  on  looking,  she  found  the  stitches  taken  np,  and  the  pat- 
tern continued. 

She  regarded  Mary  with  a  stupefied  look ;  then  turning  »to 
me,  she  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  the  highest  admiration,  "  She 
can  knit,  too  I  Ah,  my  friend,  I  retract  my  judgment ;  there 
is  nothing  wanting ;  her  education  is  complete." 


li 


ANECDOl^S  OF  THE  TIOEB. 


169 


1 


28.   Anecdotes  op  the  Tiger. 


LIKE  other  voracions  beasts,  nothing  will  deter  the  tiger 
from  attempting  to  obtain  his  prey  when  hungry,  however 
apparent  may  be  the  danger  he  risks.  A  Scotchman,  who 
was  a  soldier  in  India,  assured  us,  that  while  the  army  was  on 
its  march,  in  broad  day,  an  enormously  large  tiger  sprang  from 
a  jungle  which  they  were  passing,  and  carried  off  one  of  the 
men  in  his  month,  with  as  much  ease  "as  a  cat  would  carry 
off  a  mouse,"  and  was  out  of  sight  before  any  effort  could  be 
made  for  the  recovery  of  the  poor  man,  so  quick  and  unex- 
pected was  the  whole  occurrence. 

2.  The  postmen  of  India,  who  are  called  dawks,  and  who 
travel  on  foot,  are  frequently  seized  by  these  creatures,  as  are 
those  who  escort  them  ;  nor  can  any  thmg  be  more  dangerous 
than  for  persons  to  venture,  unless  it  be  in  well-armed  bodies, 
within  their  blood-stained  neighborhoods. 

3.  In  1819,  an  official  report  was  presented  to  the  Indian 
government,  in  which  it  was  stated  that  eighty-four  persons 
Lad  been  seized  and  carried  off  by  tigers,  from  one  district  only, 
in  the  course  of  the  preceding  year.  It  may  be  supposed  how 
much  the  possessions  of  the  East  India  Company  must  have 


160 


THE  THIBD  HEADER. 


■til 


been  infested  with  these  depredators,  when  the  amoant  of  pre- 
miums bestowed  on  those  persons  who  slew  them  in  the  year 
1808,  is  stated  to  have  been  $15,000. 

4.  Lilce  most  other  animals,  the  tigress  is  attached  strongly 
to  her  yoong.  In  the  "  Oriental  Field  Sports,"  Captain  Wil' 
liamson  tells  ns  that  some  peasants  in  India  had  found  four 
cubs  in  the  absence  of  their  mother,  and  brought  him  two, 
which  be  placed  in  a  stable.  After  howling  for  several  nights, 
the  tigress  approached  and  responded  to  them ;  and  it  was 
deemed  pmdent  to  let  them  out,  lest  theur  manmia  should 
break  in ;  the  next  morning  she  carried  them  off. 

5.  The  tiger,  like  all  animals  when  brought  under  the  con- 
trol of  man,  will  evince  signs  of  partiality  towards  his  keeper, 
or  others  accustomed  to  treat  him  kindly.  Still,  we  think  the 
confidence  of  keepers  is  sometimes  carried  too  far,  as  there 
are  tunes  when  the  natural  instinct  of  savage  brutes  will  reign 
paramount,  in  despite  of  their  training. 

6.  The  imprudence,  however,  of  strangers  attempting  to 
take  any  freedom  with  such  creatures,  cannot  be  too  often  nor 
too  deeply  impressed  upon  the  minds  of  our  readers — since, 
from  inattention  to  it,  how  many  fatal  accidents  have  occurred  ! 
A  schoolmaster  went  to  see  a  menagerie,  where,  admiring  the 
beauty  of  the  tiger,  he  offered  it  an  apple.  The  creature  seized 
his  hand,  dragging  it  into  the  cage;  and  although,  by  the 
efforts  of  the  keepers  the  brute  was  compelled  to  let  it  go,  yet 
it  was  so  dreadfully  lacerated  that  amputation  became  neces- 
sary ;  and,  in  a  few  days  afterwards,  the  poor  man  was  a  corpse. 

7.  People  in  the  East  are  usually  fond  of  witnessing  the 
combats  of  wild  and  savage  animals ;  and  we  will  now  give 
our  readers,  not  only  an  illustration  of  their  savage  tastes, 
but  also  the  invincible  courage  of  their  fellow-beings,  who  run 
the  risk  of  a  dreadful  death  to  gratify  them.  The  statement 
from  which  we  are  about  to  quote  is  narrated  by  a  gentleman 
who  was  invited  by  the  rajah  of  Coorg  to  become  a  spectator 
of  his  cruel  and  terrific  amusements.  Coorg  is  a  fine  prov- 
ince of  Hindostan,  which  our  youthful  readers  wUl  discover 
upon  their  maps,  situated  in  the  western  Ghaut  mountains  of 
that  vjist  region. 


JLSEODOfTEa  OF  THE  TIGER. 


161 


W 


f 


8.  The  r^jah,  with  true  Asiatic  vanity,  prided  himself  upon 
the  nnmber  of  savage  beasts  he  possessed ;  having,  it  was  said, 
many  lions  and  tigers  which  had  been  brought  to  perfect  sab- 
mission,  besides  others  which  were  kept  for  combating. 

On  the  appointed  day  of  the  exhibition  in  question,  the  rajah 
with  his  court,  and  other  persons,  were  seated  in  a  gallery, 
below  which  was  an  arena  of  a  hundred  yards  square,  where 
the  sports  commenced.  After  some  engagements  of  inferior 
animals  had  ended,  a  man  entered  the  arena  ahuost  iiaked, 
having  on  a  pair  of  trowsers  only,  that  'ust  covered  his  hips, 
and  reached  scarcely  half  way  down  his  thighs. 

9.  He  was  tall,  and  though  slight,  yet  mnsculi!r.r,  strong, 
and  active.  His  body  glistened  with  the  "^  il  with  which  it  had 
been  rubbed  to  add  to  the  pliability  of  his  limbs ;  and  ir  his 
hand  he  held  what  is  called  a  Coorg-knife,  somewhat  in  Irape 
like  a  plough-share,  about  two  feet  long,  three  '^r  four  inches 
wide,  and  tapering  a  little  towards  the  handl/ ;  ih  is  heavy, 
and  first  swung  round  the  head  by  the  person  who  uses  it,  by 
which  means  a  blow  is  inflicted  with  a  force  that  is  truly  won- 
derful. The  Hindoo,  who  now  appeared,  had  volunteered  to 
fight  with  a  tiger ;  and,  having  brandished  his  weapon,  "  the 
expression  of  his  countenance,"  says  the  writer,  "was  really 
sublime  when  he  gave  the  signal  for  the  animal  to  be  let  loose ; 
it  was  the  very  concentration  of  moral  energy — the  index  of 
a  single  and  settled  resolution  1 " 

10.  Men,  who  were  placed  above,  at  his  signal  raised  the 
bars  of  a  cage  from  which  an  inmieu  c-  royal  tiger  sprang  before 
him  with  a  half-stifled  growl,  and  waving  its  tail,  upon  which 
it  erected  the  hair  as  a  cat  does  when  she  is  angry.  It  looked 
at  its  opponent,  who  met  it  ^.?Ith  his  eye,  and  then  at  all 
around ;  but  uneasy  at  its  novel  situation,  it  leaped  again  into 
its  cage,  from  which  the  keepers  above  not  being  able  again 
to  force  it,  let  fall  the  bars  by  which  it  was  secured. 

11.  Some  crackers  were  tied  to  the  creature's  tail,  which 
projected  through  the  bars ;  to  these  the  man  applied  a  lighted 
match  that  had  been  handed  to  him,  and  the  bars  were  again 
drawn  up.  The  tiger  now  bounded  out  of  its  den  in  a  state 
of  frantic  excitement,  until  the  crackers  having  exploded,  it 


.0*i,Mmmmnr 


162 


THE  THIRD  READER. 


croached  SDarling  in  a  corner,  like  a  eat  when  she  is  annoyed — 
the  bars  of  its  cage  had  been  let  down ;  and  the  brave  Hindoo, 
who  had  been  watching  its  motions,  now  slowly  and  fearlessly 
advanced  towards  it. 

12.  Thus  roused,  the  hairs  of  its  body  became  erect,  and  its 
tail  (like  the  tail  of  an  angry  cat)  twice  its  usual  size ;  yet,  as 
the  man  slowly  advanced,  it  again  retreated,  keeping  its  front 
towards  its  brave  opponent,  who  still  advanced  with  the  same 
slow  and  measured  step  as  before.  Suddenly  he  stopped ;  and 
now  paced  steadily  backwards,  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  his  enemy, 
which,  as  he  thus  retreated,  raised  itself  to  its  extreme  height, 
lashed  its  tiail,  and  arched  its  back,  in  preparation  for  making 
a  spring.  The  Hindoo  still  moved  gently  backwards,  and  when 
the  tiger  could  no  longer  see  the  expression  of  his  eye,  it 
bounded  towards  hun  with  a  growl. 

13.  With  the  swiftness  of  lightning,  however,  he  sprang  on 
one  side,  whirled  his  ponderous  knife  around  his  head,  and 
when  the  animal's  feet  reached  the  ground,  it  felt  the  full  force 
of  the  urresistible  blow  designed  for  it,  just  above  the  point  of 
the  hinder  leg,  the  bone  of  which  it  completiely  snapped  in  two. 

14.  The  Hindoo  retired  a  few  paces,  and  the  wounded  beast, 
disabled  from  making  another  spring,  roaring  with  pain,  rushed 
towards  hun  upon  its  three  legs  (the  other  hanging  by  the  skin 
only)  in  a  state  of  reckless  excitement,  while  its  courageous 
(be  stood  calm  and  determined,  awaiting  the  shock,  poising  his 
trusty  weapon  above  his  head,  and  which,  when  his  opponent 
had  got  within  his  reach,  he  struck  with  such  force  into  its 
skull,  as  severed  it  from  ear  to  ear,  and  the  conquered  brute 
fell  dead  at  his  feet.  He  then  calmly  drew  his  knife  across 
the  tiger's  skin  to  cleanse  it  of  the  blood ;  made  a  dignified 
"salaam,"  or  bow,  to  the  rajah,  and,  amidst  the  load  plaudits 
of  the  spectators,  withdrew. 


TITE  FOUNTAIN. 


163 


29.   The  Fountain. 


jfK;rfii-  M; 


1.  TNTO  the  sunshine 
i  Full  of  light, 
Leaping  and  flashing, 

From  morn  to  night ; 

2.  Into  the  moonlight 

Whiter  than  snow^, 
Waving  so  flower-like 
When  the  winds  blow : 

3.  Into  the  starlight, 

Bushing  in  spray, 
Happy  at  midnight 
Happy  by  day; 

4.  Ever  in  motion. 

Blithesome  and  cheery, 
Still  climbing  heavenward. 
Never  aweary ; 

5.  Glad  of  all  weathers 

Still  seeming  best, 

tfpward  or  downward 

Motion  thy  I'est ; 

(5.  Full  of  a  nature 
Nothing  can  tame. 
Changed  every  moment, 
Ever  the  same ; 

*l.  Ceaseless  aspiring, 
Ceaseless  content, 
Darknes$i  or  sunshine 
Thy  clement : 


^mmimmm' 


164 


THE  THIRD  READER. 

8.  Glorions  fountain  I 
Let  my  heart  be 
Fresh,  changeful,  constant, 
Upward  like  thee. 


30.   Benediot  Arnold, 

THERE  was  a  day  when  Talleyrand  arrived  in  Havre  direct 
from  Paris.  It  was  the  darkest  hour  of  the  French  Rev- 
olution. Pursued  by  the  bloodhounds  of  the  Reign  of  Terror, 
stripped  of  every  wreck  of  property  or  power,  Talleyrand  se- 
cured a  passage' to  America,  ui  a  ship  about  to  sail.  He  was 
a  beggar  and  a  wanderer  to  a  strange  land,  to  earn  his  bread 
by  daily  labor. 

2.  "  Is  there  an  American  staying  at  your  house  ?"  he  asked 
the  landlord  of  the  hotel.  "  I  am  bound  to  cross  the  water, 
and  would  like  a  letter  to  a  person  of  influence  in  the  New 
World." 

The  landlord  hesitated  a  mcnnent,  then  replied,  "  There  is 
a  gentleman  up-stairs,  either  fVom  America  or  Britain,  but 
whether  an  American  or  an  Englishman,  I  cannot  tell." 

He  pointed  the  way,  and  Talleyrand,  who  in  his  life  was 
bishop,  prince,  and  prime  minister,  ascended  the  stairs.  A 
miserable  suppliant,  he  stood  before  the  stranger's  door, 
knocked,  and  entered. 

3.  In  the  far  comer  of  the  dimly-lighted  room,  sat  a  man 
of  some  fifty  years ;  his  arms  folded,  and  his  head  bowed  on 
his  breast.  From  a  window  directly  opposite,  a  flood  of  light 
poured  over  hi.'  forehead.  His  eyes  looked  from  beneath  the 
downcast  brows,  and  gazed  on  Talleyrand's  face  with  a  pecu- 
liar and  searching  expression.  His  face  was  striking  in  out- 
line ;  the  mouth  and  chin  indicative  of  an  iron  will.  His  form, 
vigorous,  even  with  the  snows  of  fifty,  was  clad  in  a  dark,  but 
rich  and  distinguished  costume. 

4.  Talleyrand  advanced,  stated  that  he  was  a  fugitive,  and, 
under  the  impression  that  the  gentleman  before  him  was  an 
American,  he  solicited  his  kind  and  feeling  offices.    He  poured 


BENEDICT  ARNOLD. 


165 


forth  his  history  in  eloquent  French  and  broken  English  ;  "  I 
am  a  wanderer  and  an  exile.  I  am  forced  to  fly  to  the  New 
World,  without  a  friend  or  a  home.  You  are  an  American  ! 
Give  me,  then,  I  beseech  you,  a  letter  of  yours,  so  that  I  may 
be  able  to  earn  my  bread.  I  am  willing  to  toil  in  any  manner ; 
the  scenes  of  Paris  have  seized  me  with  such  horror,  that  a 
life  of  labor  would  be  a  paradise  to  a  career  of  luxury  in 
France.  You  will  give  me  a  letter  to  one  of  your  friends  ? 
A  gentleman  like  yourself  has  doubtless  many  friends.'' 

5.  The  strange  genilsman  rose.  With  a  look  that  Talley- 
rand never  forgot,  he  retreated  towards  the  door  of  the  next 
chamber ;  his  eyes  looking  still  from  beneath  his  darkened 
brow.  He  spoke  as  he  retreated  backwards :  his  voice  was 
full  of  meaning.  "  I  am  the  only  man  bom  in  the  New  World 
who  can  raise  his  hand  to  God  and  say,  I  have  not  a  friend, 
not  one  in  all  America  1 "  Talleyrand  never  forgot  the  over- 
whelming sadness  of  the  look  which  accompanied  these  words. 

6.  "Who  are  you?"  he  cried,  as  the  strange  man  retreated 
to  the  next  room  ;  "  your  name  ?" 

"  My  name,"  he  replied,  with  a  smile  that  had  more  mockery 
than  joy  in  its  convidsive  expression, — "  my  name  is  Benedict 
Arnold  I" 

He  was  gone ;  Talleyrand  sank  into  his  chair,"gasping  the 
words,  "Arnold,  the  TiurroR  I" 

7.  Thus,  you  see,  he  wandered  over  the  earth,  another 
Gain,  with  the  wanderer's  mark  upon  his  brow.  Even  in  that 
secluded  room,  in  that  inn  at  Havre,  his  crimes  found  him  out, 
and  forced  him  to  tell  his  name :  that  name  the  synonym  of 
infamy. 

The  last  twenty  years  of  his  life  arccQvered  with  a  cloud, 
from  whose  darkness  but  a  few  gleams  of  light  flash  out  upon 
the  page  of  history. '  / 

8.  The  manner  of  his  death  is  not  exactly  known ;  but  we 
cannot  doubt  that  he  died  utterly  friendless ;  that  remorse 
pursued  him  to  the  grave,  whispering  John  Andrei !  in  his  ear ; 
and  that  the  memory  of  his  course  of  glory  gnawed  like  a 
canker  at  his  heart,  murmuring,  forever,  "True  to  your  coun- 
try, what  might  you  have  been,  oh  !  Arnold,  the  traitor  ! " 


»-»..>'i-.»ts*,  «i»*Kj«attiWi,»a- 


166 


THE  THIBD  READER. 


81.   Bute  and  No^mi. 

THE  short,  but  interesting  story  of  Ruth,  happened  under 
the  Judges,  and  makes  a  book  of  itself.  The  sacred 
writer  tells  us,  that  at  the  time  when  the  land  of  Israel  was 
sorely  vexed  by  famine,  a  certain  man,  by  name  Elimelech,  of 
the  town  of  Bethlehem,  retired  with  No6mi  his  wife  and  two 
sons  into  the  country  of  the  Mpabites,  not  to  starve  in  his  own. 


BUTE  AND  NOEMI. 


167 


inder 
Lcred 

was 
^,  of 

two 
own. 


2.  After  his  death,  Nodmi  married  her  two  sons  to  two 
young  women  of  that  country,  whose  names  were  Arpha  and 
Ruth.  They  lived  ten  years  together,  but  no  issue  came  from 
either  of  the  two  marriages ;  the  two  brothers  died,  and  left 
their  disconsolate  mother  in  a  childless  widowhood.  Having 
no  consolation  to  expect  in  the  land  of  Moab,  Noemi  resolved 
to  return  into  her  own  country,  where  the  famine  was  no 
bnger  felt. 

3.  She  made  her  purpase  known  to  Arpha  and  Ruth  ;  they 
both  flesired  to  accompany  her  to  Bethlehem.  She  begged 
they  would  not  think  of  going  with  a  friendless  widow, 
from  whom  they  had  neither  fortune  nor  comfort  to  expect, 
but  to  return  to  their  relations,  from  whom  they  might  meet 
with  both ;  she  made  them  understand,  that  by  going  with 
her,  they  would  but  throw  themselves  into  fresh  miseries; 
that  her  present  distress  was  sufficient  without  any  other 
addition ;  that  to  see  them  suffer  on  her  account  would  in- 
crease her  pain ;  and  that  their  sufferings  would  be  more 
afflicting  to  her  than  her  own. 

4.  Arpha  yielded  to  Nodmi's  reasons,  tenditrly  embraced 
her,  and  returned  to  Moab.  Ruth  was  too  much  attached  to 
her  mother-in-law  to  think  of  leaving  her ;  with  the  greatest 
eagerness  she  begged  that  they  might  be  never  separated  from 
each  other.  "  I  will  accompany  you,"  said  she,  "  wherever  you 
shall  go,  and  with  you  I  will  forever  dwell ;  your  people  shall 
be  my  people,  and  your.  God  shall  be  mine ;  in  the  same  land 
with  you  I  will  live  and  die,  and  i^pthing  but  death  shall  ever 
part  us." 

5.  NoSmi  could  not  refuse  so  affectionate  and  so  resolute  a 
request;  she  consented  to  Ruth's  going  with  her,  and  they 
both  came  to  Bethlehem.  It  was  then  harvest  time,  and 
Ruth  desired  leave  of  her  mother  to  go  into  the  neighboring 
fields,  where  she  might  glean  some  relief  in  theur  scanty 
circumstances.  Kind  Providence  conducted  her  into  a  field 
belonging  to  Booz,  a  near  relation  of  Elimelech,  Nodmi's  for- 
mer husband. 

6.  Hor  remarkable  diligence  drew  the  eyes  of  the  reapers, 
and  Booz,  from  the  favorable  account  he  had  received  from 


168 


O'HE  THIBD  BEADEB. 


his  overseer,  of  Ruth's  dntifnl  behavior  to  her  mother,  and 
of  her  diligence  at  work,  ordered  every  kindness  and  civility  to 
be  sbowu  her.  He  hfjAe  his  reapers  scatter  the  corn  on  pur- 
pose, and  leave  Ruth  a  sufficient  quantity  to  requite  :>.e;-  amply 
for  the  pains  she  took ;  if  she  should  be  willing  to  reap,  lie 
told  them  not  to  hinder  her,  and  insisted  upon  !»er  eating  mid 
drinking  with  his  servants. 

7.  This  goodness  of  Booz  to  Rath  has  been  considered  by 
the  holy  fathers  as  an  emblem  of  that  which  Jesus  Christ  has 
since  shown  to  his  Church.  Booz  did  not  disdain  to  lake 
notice  of  a  poor  stranger ;  ueither  the  present  meannes'?  of  her 
appearance,  nor  the  past  errors  of  her  religious  feeatim  u'b. 
excludefJ  her  from  the  acts  of  his  humanity. 

8.  liiiMi's  .Icady  attachment  to  NoSmi  is  an  example  of 
that  unshiik^^n  fidelity  which  every  Christian  owes  to  Jesus 
Christ  an«i  his  Church.  He  that  loves  his  father,  mother,  or 
his  kindred,  more  than  me,  says  our  blessed  Saviour,  is  not 
worthy  of  me.  Whoever  will  come  after  mc  let  hun  deny 
himself,  take  up  his  cross,  and  so  follow  me. 

9.  If  m  following  Jesus  Christ,  worldly  advantages  must 
be  Hometimes  given  up,  and  hardships  undergone,  an  upright 
mind  and  a  peaceful  conscience  will  confer  an  inward  satisfac- 
tion, which,  without  vurtue,  no  riches  can  purchase,  and  no 
power  bestow. 

10.  NoSmi's  poverty  was  to  Ruth  of  more  advantage  than 
the  wealth  of  Moab ;  and  they  who,  by  a  firm  and  generous 
attachment,  stand  steady  to*  the  principles  of  duty,  will  also 
receive  their  reward  in  the  end.  They  may  su£fer,  they  may 
be  oppressed  for  a  time ;  the  hour  of  their  delivery  hastens  on, 
an  eternity  of  joys  is  already  prepared  to  console  their  pams, 
and  to  crown  their  patience. 


ILOWEBS. 


169 


32.   Flowebb. 

1.  f\B.,  they  look  upward  in  every  place 
^  Through  this  beautiful  world  of  ours, 
And  dear  as  a  smile  on  an  old  friend's  face 

Is  the  smile  of  the  bright,  bright  flowers  ! 
They  tell  us  of  wanderings  by  woods  and  streams ; 

They  tell  us  of  lanes  and  trees ; 
But  the  children  of  showers  and  sunny  beams 

Have  loveUer  tales  than  these — 

The  bright,  bright  flowers  ! 

2.  They  tell  of  a  season  when  men  were  not, 

When  earth  was  by  angels  trod, 
And  leaves  and  flowers  in  every  spot 

Burst  forth  at  the  call  of  God ; 
When  spirits,  singing  their  hymns  at  even, 

Wandered  by  wood  and  glade ; 
And  the  Lord  look'd  down  from  the  highest  heaven 

And  bless'd  what  he  had  made — 

The  bright,  bright  flowers. 

8.  That  blessing  remaineth  upon  them  still, 
Though  often  the  storm-cloud  lowers. 
And  frequent  tempests  may  soil  and  chill 

The  gayest  of  earth's  fair  flowers. 
When  Sin  and  Death,  with  their  sister  Grief, 

Made  a  home  in  the  hearts  of  men, 
The  blessing  of  God  on  each  tender  leaf 
Preserved  in  their  beauty,  then, — 

The  bright,  bright  flowers. 

4.  The  lily  is  lovely  as  when  it  slept 
On  the  waters  of  Eden's  lake ; 
The  woodbine  breathes  sweetly  as  when  it  Qsmgi, 
In  Elen  frmn  brake  tb  bndce. 

8 


M^0mMm» 


170 


THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 

They  were  left  as  a  proof  of  the  loveliness 
Of  Adam  and  Eve's  first  home ; 

They  are  here  as  a  type  of  the  joys  that  bless 
The  just  in  the  world  to  come^ — 

The  bright,  bright  flowers. 


33.  The  Scholar  of  the  Bosaby. 

IN  a  certain  district  in  the  south  of  France,  there  lived  a 
noble  lady,  who  governed  her  household  and  family  in  all 
holy  discipline,  and  wh  was  among  the  first  to  join  the  con- 
fraternity in  honor  of  the  mother  of  God,  on  its  re-establish- 
ment  in  that  country. 

2.  She  had  an  only  child,  named  Bernard ;  a  boy  whose 
disposition  was  as  noble  as  his  burth,  although  indeed  he  was 
rather  remarkable  for  the  angelic  innocence  of  his  life  than 
for  the  endowment  of  his  mind.  He  was  sent  by  his  mother 
to  study  at  a  school  in  the  neighborhood,  whence  he  was 
wont  to  return  home  every  evening,  for  she  could  not  resolve 
to  trust  hun  away  from  her  own  care  while  he  was  still  so 
young. 

3.  It  does  not  seem  that  Bernard  was  in  any  way  deficient 
in  ability ;  and  he  even  made  considerable  progress  in  some 
of  his  studies,  especially  m  grammar ;  but  he  was  wanting  in 
quickness  and  liveliness  of  ima^ation ;  and  the  composition 
of  French  and  Latin  verses,  which  was  one  of  the  common 
school-tasks  of  his  class,  became  a  difficulty  too  great  for  him. 

4.  One  evening  when  he  returned  home,  after  a  day  of  uo- 
usual  trouble,  he  sat  down  in  a  pensi'  o  mood  on  the  steps 
leading  into  the  garden,  and  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  he 
gave  himself  up  to  very  sorrowful  reflections.  He  knew  how 
much  his  mother  wished  that  he  should  grow  up  a  learned 
man,  and  then  he  was  at  the  bottom  of  his  class,  with  the 
reputation  of  being  the  dunce  of  the  school ;  and  all  because 
be  was  not  born  a  poet :  it  was  certainly  a  little  hard. 


.. 


6.  Poets,  as  all  know,  are  bom,  not  made ;  and  it  fseemBd 


ive 
so 


eps 
he 


the 
kuse 


•»ii 


THE  SOHOLAB  OF  THE  BOSABT. 


m 


an  anreasonable  thing  to  spend  so  many  a  long  day  in  trying 
to  become  what  nature  had  not  made  him. 

"Bernard/'  said  his  mother— and  ax  the  sound  of  that 
gentle  voice  the  poor  boy  started  to  his  feet — "  what  is  the 
matter?  Your  hair  is  hang!  ig  about  your  eyes,  your  ct^  is 
on  the  ground,  and  I  see  something  very  like  tears  on  those 
white  cheeks." 

6.  Bernard  hung  his  head,  but  did  not  say  a  word.  "  Do 
you  not  speak,  my  child?"  continued  his  mother:  "you  were 
never  wont  to  hide  your  sorrows  thus ;  or  is  it,  Indeed,  that 
you  have  fallen  into  some  grievous  fault  at  school,  and  fear  to 
declare  it  to  me?" 

"  No,  mother,"  replied  Bernard,  "  they  call  me  dunce,  and 
fool,  and  they  speak  truly :  but  though  now  I  could  cry,  as 
though  my  heart  would  break,  it  is  for  no  fault  that  you  would 
deem  a  grievous  one ;  it  is  that  I  am  not  a  poet."  And  with 
these  words,  Bernard  hid  his  face  on  his  mother's  knee,  and 
sobbed  aloud. 

1.  "  A  poet,  child  I "  said  his  mother ;  "  is  that  your  only 
trouble  ?  Heard  you  ever  that  poets  were  happier  or  better 
than  other  men,  that  you  should  crave  a  gift  that  brings  little 
ease,  and  ofttimes  less  of  grace :  covet  the  better  gifts,  Bernard, 
for  this  is  hardly  worth  your  tears ;  a  holy  heart  and  a  spotless 
faith  were  fitter  things  to  weep  after." 

8.  "But,  mother,"  replied  Bernard,  earnestly,  "you  know 
not  how  the  case  stands  with  boys :  we  have  to  learn  so  many 
things  you  would  marvel  to  find  the  use  for ;  and  among  them 
all  there  is  none  so  strange  to  fit  a  meaning  to  as  the  making 
of  these  verses. 

9.  "  And  yet  Master  Roland  says  I  am  a  dunce  if  I  do  not 
make  them ;  and  shall  abide  as  I  am,  the  lag-last  oi  the  school, 
till  I  better  know  how  to  scan  my  lines,  and  have  learnt  the 
difference  between  a  trochee  and  a  spondee :  and  that,"  he 
added,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "  I  shall  never  learn." 

10.  "  Bernard,"  said  his  mother,  "  I  do  not  think  I  can  help 
to  mend  your  verses,  but  I  may  chance  to  be  able  to  mend 
your  courage.  It  was  but  the  other  day  that  Master  Alan 
told  me  of  a  student  whose  books  were  as  grievous  to  him  as 


172 


THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 


any  yerses  of  yours  can  be,  and  yet  he  found  the  way  not  only 
to  read  them,  bat  to  ^rite  them  too ;  and  died  a  great  doctor 
and  professor  in  the  university." 

11.  "And  what  was  his  way  ?"  asked  Bernard.  "  Perhaps 
hi 'books  were  written  in  prose ;  it  might  have  been  different 
if  they  had  been  poetry." 

"  His  way  was  a  very  simple  one,"  replied  his  mother ;  "  he 
asked  our  dear  Lady's  help,  and  every  day  said  the  rosary  in 
herjionor.  I  think  there  is  little  to  hinder  you  jfrom  doing 
the  6ame. 

12.  "  Master  Alan  has  given  you  a  rosary,  though  I  see  not 
that  you  often  use  it ;  take  it  before  her  altar,  every  morning 
before  you  go  to  school,  and  say  the  prayers  as  he  has  taught 
you ;  and  remember  that  no  one  ever  prayed  to  Mary  without 
obtaining  relief." 

13.  Bernard  was  not  slow  in  following  his  mother's  counsel ; 
and  not  content  with  saying  part  of  the  rosary,  he  every  day 
recited  the  entire  fifteen  mysteries  on  his  knees  before  the 
im&vge  on  our  lady's  altar. 

14.  Nor  was  it  long  before  a  singular  change  was  observed 
in  the  boy  j  not  Only  did  his  former  dulness  and  heaviness  of 
capacity  gittdually  disappear,  but  a  certain  depth  of  feeling  and 
gracefulness  of  imagery  was  displayed  in  his  school-verses, 
that  placed  them  very  far  above  the  ordinary  standard  of  such 
productions. 


34.   The  Scholar  ov  the  Bosabt — contmned, 

THE  masters  marvelled  at  the  change,  and  said  ijaany  learned 
things  about  the  development  of  the  understanding ;  the 
scholars  wondered  also,  and  soon  came  to  beseech  Bernard  to 
help  them  in  their  tasks  ;  as  for  the  boy  himself,  the  light  in 
his  soul  had  stolen  into  it  with  such  a  soft  and  quiet  gentle- 
ness, that  he  hardly  knew  the  change. 

2.  When  they  praised  and  questioned  him  as  to  whence  he 
drew  his  thoughts  a.nd  imagery,  he  was  wont  to  answer,  with 
«  wonderi^  iBim|iUGity,  tSiat  any  one  a^ght  idQ  Itorgaipe^  for 


konly 
loctor 

srhaps 
Bferent 

;  "he 

jary  in 

doing 

Bee  not 
Lorning 
taught 
dthoUt 

onnsel; 
ery  day 
ore  the 

bserved 

ness  of 

ingand 

-verses, 

of  such 


ted. 

learned 
ng ;  the 
•nard  to 

light  in 
t  gentle- 

lence  he 
rer,  with 


THE  SCHOLAR  OF  THE  BOSABT. 


173 


he  fonnd  it  all  in  the  rosary.  This  reply,  which  he  constantly 
gave,  soon  became  talked  about  among  the  rest,  and  gamed 
him  the  title,  among  his  companions,  of  the  Scholar  of  the 
Rosary. 

3.  Every  one  now  predicted  great  things  of  Bernard ;  he 
was  the  head  of  his  class  and  of  the  school ;  the  highest 
awards  of  learning,  he  was  told,  were  now  within  his  grasp ; 
with  that  delicate  and  subtle  fancy,  and  that  solidity  of  under- 
standing, he  might  aspire  to  any  thing ;  the  professor's  chair 
or  the  doctor's  cap  would  never  surely  be  'enied  him. 

4.  But  their  hopes  and  expectations  were  not  to  be  realized ; 
for  the  scholar  of  Mary  a  higher  and  very  different  distinction 
was  in  store.  One  day  he  came  home  as  usual,  and  complained 
of  an  aching  pain  in  his  eyes ;  before  the  morning  the  inflam- 
mation had  increased  to  such  a  degree  that  he  could  not  bear 
the  light,  and  was  obliged  to  keep  his  bed  in  a  darkened  room, 
where,  spite  of  every  care  and  remedy  which  his  mother's  ten- 
derness could  bestow,  he  suffered  the  greatest  pain. 

5.  For  two  months  he  lay  in  this  st»te,  while  the  disease 
gradually  assumed  a  more  dangerous  character.  The  physi- 
cians desired  that  every  ray  of  daylight  should  be  excluded 
from  his  room,  and  the  utmost  care  taken  to  preserve  the 
slightest  object  from  irritating  the  eye ;  an  order  which  was 
strictly  obeyed. 

6.  Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  his  pain  and  increasing  weakness, 
nothing  prevented  Bernard  from  fulfilling  his  customary  pray- 
ers. Every  day,  as  usual,  he  recited  the  fifteen  mysteries  of 
the  rosary,  and  comforted  his  mother,  when  s'io  grieved  over 
the  blindness  that  threatened  him,  by  saying  his  ibvotion  was 
one  which  needed  neither  book  nor  daylight  U^  help  it,  but 
only  the  familiar  touch  of  those  dear  beads  that  never  left  his 
neck. 

7.  Alas  !  blindness  was  before  long  not  the  only  evil  she  had 
to  dread  ;  it  was  soon  evident  that  the  malady  had  reached  a 
fatal  form,  which  no  human  skill  could  avail  to  remedy.  Ber- 
nard was  to  die  ;  all  the  great  hopes  excited  by  his  newly  dis- 
played talents  vanished  into  thin  air ;  and  those  whose  tongues 
had  been  so  busy  with  his  wonderful  genius  were  now  loud  in 


■  vairA<;m«^  j,  iitetttiu. 


174 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


deploring  the  loss  of  one  from  whom  so  brilliant  a  career  might 
have  been  expected. 

8.  His  mother  entered  the  room  to  prepare  him  for  the 
coming  of  the  priest ;  and  as  she  did  so,  she  desired  the  attend- 
ant to  bring  a  candle  into  the  still-darkened  chamber. 

"What  need  of  a  candle V  said  the  boy ;  "tell  them  that 
it  is  not  wanted." 

9.  " It  is  for  the  priest,  my  child,"  she  replied.  "You  will 
try  and  bear  the  light  for  a  few  minutes ;  for  the  good  father 
has  come  to  hear  your -confession,  and  he  could  not  see  to 
enter  without  a  light." 

"But  there  is  light,"  he  replied;  "the  room  is  full  of  it, 
and  has  never  been  dark  to  me.  I  wonder  that  you  do  not 
see  it." 

10.  "What  light  ?"  asked  the  priest,  who  was  by  this  time 
bending  over  him.  "Your  mother  and  I  are  standing  here, 
but  to  our  eyes  the  room  is  darkened  still." 

"  It  is  from  our  Lady,"  replied  the  boy ;  "  she  is  here  by  my 
bedside,  and  the  rays  Are  shining  from  her,  and  make  it  day. 
There  has  never  been  darkness  here  since  I  have  been  ill." 

11.  The  priest  felt  an  awe  stealing  over  him,  and  involun- 
tarily bowed  his  head  towards  the  spot  indicated  by  the  child. 

"And  does  that  light  hurt  your  eyes?"  he  asked;  "you 
could  not  bear  the  daylight." 

"It  is  joy,"  answered  Bernard,  famtly;  "joy  and  glory: 
the  sorrow  is  all  gone  now  ! "  and  the  priest  saw  that  in  his 
last  words  he  was  still  thinking  of  the  rosary.  And  so  he 
died ;  and  those  whom  he  left  needed  not  the  evidence  of  mir- 
acles to  assure  them  that  the  scholar  of  Mary  had  been  taken 
to  the  fulness  of  that  glory,  something  of  whose  radiance  had 
thus  rested  over  his  dying  bed. 


I 


~^es 


THE  MONTH  OF  MAY. 


175 


might 

or  the 
etttend- 

m  that 

bu  will 
father 
see  to 

11  of  it, 
do  not 

his  time 
ig  here, 

^ebymy 
it  day. 
ill." 

involan- 
he  child, 
i;  "you 

d  glory: 
at  in  his 
ad  so  he 
e  of  mir- 
cn  taken 
ance  had 


I 


35.    The  Month  or  May. 

THIS  is  the  sweet,  the  balmy  month  of  May  I — the  season 
when  nature  comes  forth  in  all  her  gayest  attire,  robed 
in  violet  and  green,  her  brow  encircled  with  garlands  of 
flowers.  To  children,  it  is  a  season  of  mirth ; — to  all  a  time 
of  gladness. 

During  this  month  the  Church,  in  a  Gpecial  manner,  invites 
her  children  to  honor  and  invoke  the  patronage  of  the  immac- 
ulate Queen  of  Heaven,  in  that  beautiful  devotion  of  "the 
Month  of  Mary." 


;i76 


THE  THIRD  READER. 


!       I 


2.  As  this  devotion  in  honor  of  the  holy  Virgin  is  now  so 
universally  practised,  we  give  the  following  sketch  of  its  origin 
for  the  instruction  and  edification  of  our  young  readers : 

3.  During  the  early  part  of  the  sixteenth  century,  Father 
Lalomia,  a  professor  in  one  of  the  Jesuit  colleges  in  Italy, 
proposed  to' the  pupils  of  his  class  to  perform  each  day  during 
the  month  of  May,  some  special  devotion  to  the  mother  of 
God.  The  happy  suggestion  was  joyfully  seconded  by  his 
pupils,  and  accordingly,  a  statue  of  the  Blessed  Yirgm  was 
placed  upon  a  table  at  the  end  of  the>class-room.  Before  this 
humble  altar,  which  they  fervently  decorated  with  flowers,  the 
venerable  father  and  his  pupils  daily  assembled  and  recited 
certain  prayers  in  honor  of  Mary,  and  made  a  short  meditation 
on  the  virtues  of  her  life. 

4.  The  fathers  of  the  college  remarked  with  much  gratifica- 
tion the  fervent  piety  which,  from  that  period,  distinguished 
the  members  of  Father  Lalomia^s  class — an  evidence  how 
pleasing  this  devotion  was  to  the  mother  of  God.  On  the  re- 
turning May,  the  devotion  which  commenced  in  a  single  class, 
was  extended  to  the  whole  college.  The  effect  was  most  re- 
markable. 

5.  Boys  who  had  been  heretofore  nntractable,  now  became 
models  of  obedience  and  docility ;  those  who  had  been  remiss 
in  the  practice  of  their  religion,  now  flew  to  the  confessional ; 
the  slothful  andr  indolent  became  examples  in  the  punctual  and 
faithM  discharge  of  their  scholastic  duties ;  the  praises  of 
Mary  were  heard  from  every  tongue,  her  statue  was  daily 
crowned,  and  her  altar  strewed  with  flowers. 

6.  The  fathers,  seeing  the  good  effects  which  the  devotion 
of  the  month  of  May  produced  in  this  single  college,  immedi- 
ately introduced  it  into  all  their  colleges  in  Italy,  and  in  other 
countries  of  Europe  ;  and  as  they  went  forth  firom  these  insti- 
tutions on  the  mission,  they  established  the  devotion  among 
the  faithful,  and  thus  it  spread  from  church  to  church  until  it 
has  at  length  become  almost  universal. 

^  "7.  Let  our  young  readers,  durmg  this  month,  join  in  this 
beautiful  devotion.  Let  them  go  forth  every  morning  and 
crown  the  statue  of  their  heavenly  Queen,  strew  her  altar  with 


THE  MONTH  OF  HABT. 


177 


,. 


fresh-gathered  flowers,  and  saj  to  her  in  all^the  fervor  of  their 
hearts : 

Dearest  mother !  on  thy  altar, 

Lay  we  down  this  simple  wreath  : 
Guide  thy  children,  as  we  falter, 

Safely  through  this  vale  of  death.   , 
To  thy  sacred  heart  devoted 

Thou  on  us  hestowe(A'))eace ; 
Reconciled  to  Heaven  we  pray  thee 

Till  this  d^ngerouB  life  shall  cease. 


'  J 


36.   The  Month  OF  Mart. 

1.  "V^OUNG  May  comes  forth  in  her  flowery  dress, 
-i-   The  vales  rejoice  in  their  loveliness ; 

The  meek  primrose  and  the  lily  fair, 
And  Bethlehem's  star  are  smiling  there ; 
Then  children  of  Mary,  haste  away. 
Prepare  the  wreath  for  her  festal  day. 

2.  With  fairest  flowers  that  wreath  entwine, 
Their  graceful  forms  with  care  combine, 
Then  let  it  be  near  some  altar  hung, 
And  "Ave  Maria '^  be  sweetly  sung ; 
And  the  holy  priest  shall  lend  his  aid. 
To  crave  a  boon  from  the  spotless  maid. 


8.  But  the  wreath  that  with  Mary  bears  the  palm, 
Is  a  glowing  heart  with  passions  calm ; 
Where  charity,  peace,  and  meekness  dwell, 
And  the  virtue  pure  she  loved  so  well : 
With  these  adorn'd  your  chaplet  bear. 
And  ever  confide  in  Mary's  care. 


Mmiemmmi': 


178 


THE  THIBD  READER. 


87.   The  Indian. 


lyrOT  many  generations  ago,  where  you  now  Eiit,  surrounded 
•1-^  by  all  that  exalts  and  embellishes  civilized  life,  the  rank 
thistle  nodded  in  the  wind,  and  the  wild-fox  dug  his  hole  un- 
scared.  Here  lived  and  loved  another  race  of  beings.  Beneath 
the  same  sun  that  rolls  over  your  heads,  the  Indian  hunter 
pursued  the  panting  deer;  gazing  on  the  same  moon  that 
smiles  for  you,  the  Indian  lover  wooed  his  dusky  mate. 

2.  Here  the  wigwam  blaze  beamed  on  the  tender  and  help- 
less, the  council-fire  glared  on  the  wise  and  daring.  Now  they 
dipped  their  noble  limbs  in  your  sedgy  lakes,  and  now  they 
paddled  their  light  canoe  along  your  rocky  shores.  Here  they 
warred ;  the  echoing  whoop,  the  bloody  grapple,  the  defying 
death-song,  all  were  here  ;  and,  when  the  tiger  strife  was  over, 
here  curled  the  smoke  of  peace. 

3.  Here,  too,  they  worshipped ;  and  from  many  a  dark 
bosom  went  up  a  pure  prayer  to  the  Great  Spirit.  He  had 
not  written  his  laws  for  them  on  tables  of  stone,  but  he  had 
traced  them  on  the  tables  of  their  hearts.  The  poor  child  of 
nature  knew  not  the  God  of  revelation,  but  the  God  of  the 
universe  he  acknowledged  in  eveiy  thing  around. 

4.  He  beheld  him  in  the  star  that  sunk  in  beauty  behind 
his  lonely  dwelling ;  in  the  sacred  orb  that  flamed  on  him  from 


'■tiilW'rJirwi* 


THE  INDIAN. 


179 


his  mid-day  throne  ;  in  the  flower  that  snapped  in  the  morning 
breeze ;  in  the  lofty  pine  that  defied  a  thousand  whirlwinds ; 
in  the  timid  warbler  that  never  left  its  native  grove  ;  in  the 
fearless  eagle,  whose  untired  pinion  was  wet  in  clouds ;  in  the 
worm  that  crawled  at  his  foot ;  and  in  his  own  matchless 
form,  glowing  with  a  spark  of  that  light,  to  whose  mysterious 
Source  he  bent  in  humble,  though  blind  adoration. 

5.  And  all  this  has  passed  away.  Across  the  ocean  came 
a  pilgrim  bark,  bearing  the  seeds  of  life  and  death.  The 
former  were  sown  for  you ;  the  latter  sprang  up  in  the  path 
of  the  simple  native.  Two  hundred  years  have  changed  the 
character  of  a  great  continent,  and  blotted  forever  from  its 
face  a  whole  peculiar  people.  Art  has  usurped  the  bowers  of 
nature,  and  the  anointed  children  of  education  have  been  too 
powerful  for  the  tribes  of  the  ignorant. 

6.  Here  and  there,  a  stricken  few  remain ;  but  how  unlike 
their  bold,  untamed,  nntameable  prop^enitors  I  The  Indian, 
of  falcon  glance,  and  lion-bearing,  tLo  theme  of  the  touching 
ballad,  the  hero  of  the  pathetic  tale,  is  gone  1  and  his  degraded 
offspring  crawl  upon  the  soil  where  he  walked  in  majesty,  to 
remind  us  how  miserable  is  man,  when  the  foot  of  the  con- 
queror is  on  his  neck. 

T.  As  a  race,  they  have  withered  from  the  land.  Their 
arrows  are  broken,  their  springs  arc  dried  up,  their  cabins  are 
in  the  dust.  Their  council-fire  has  long  since  gone  out  on  the 
shore,  and  their  war-cry  is  fist  dying  to  the  untrodden  West. 
Slowly  and  sadly  they  climb  the  distant  mountains,  and  read 
their  doom  in  the  setting  sun.  They  are  shrinking  before  the 
mighty  tide  which  is  pressing  them  away;  they  must  soon 
hear  the  roar  of  the  last  wave,  which  will  settle  over  them 
forever. 

8.  Ages  hence,  the  inquisitive  white  man,  as  he  stands  by 
some  growing  city,  will  ponder  on  the  structure  of  their  dis- 
turbed remains,  and  wonder  to  what  manner  of  person  they 
belonged.  They  will  live  only  in  the  songs  and  chronicles 
of  the  conquering  race.  Let  these  be  faithful  to  their  mde 
virtues  as  men,  and  pay  due  tribute  to  their  unhappy  fate  as  a 
people. 


:\U 


N 


180  THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


^.   Charity. 

1.  pHARITY  was  a  little  chUd, 
^  Blue-eyed,  beaatiful  and  xnild. 
Full  of  love  and  full  of  light, 
As  the  moon  is  to  the  night ; 
Tiny  foot  and  snowy  .hand — 
Littled  carved  ivory  wand — 
Little  osier  basket  white — 
Little  vase  of  something  bright 
Hid  in  her  dress  quite  cunningly, 
Had  the  sweet  child,  Charity  I 

2.  Where  the  aged  totter'd  on, 
Weak  and  haggard,  cold  and  wan — 
Loit'ring  in  the  cheering  sun. 
Shivering  in  the  rayless  moon, 
Wrinkled  o'er  by  icy  time. 
Moaning  for  his  faded  prime, 
Wrapp'd  in  rags  and  wretchedness, 
Lying  down  in  hopelessness: 

With  vase  and  basket  there  would  be 
The  beautiful  child,  Charity  1 

3.  Where  the  sick  were  like  to  die. 
Unheeded  all  by  human  eye, 
Parching  with  the  bleeding  mouth. 
Gasping  with  the  burning  drought, 
Sleepless— raving — sore  oppress'd, 
Staring  eye  and  heaving  breast, 
Deserted,  sad,  and  comfortless. 

In  that  lone  and  last  distress : 
With  vase  and  basket  there  would  be 
The  beautiful  child,  Charity  I 

4.  Where  the  starving  peasant  cried, 
Looking  at  his  wasting  bride — 


I 


i  i 


THE  EVEBLASTINO  CHUBCH. 

Looking  at  his  younglings  bright 
Fading  away  before  his  sight, 
Crying,  poor  man  I — ^bitterly. 
Crying,  the  helpless  sight  to  se.>— 
Then  a  little  voice  he'd  hear 
Go  a^nging  in  his  ear : 
With  vase  and  basket  there  would  be 
The  beaatifol  child,  Oharity  I 

5.  Where  the  blind  man  stray'd  aside 
From  the  roadway  high  and  wide, 
And  felt  for  his  lost  path  again 
'Mid  the  jeers  of  heartless  men, 
Just  as  stumbling  to  his  knees, 

A  little  hand  is  put  in  his, — 
A  gentle  voice  sings  up  to  him, 
Soothes  his  heart,  and  nerves  his  limb,- 
For  there  with  pitying  care  would  be 
The  beautiful  child.  Charity  1 

6.  Ah  !  the  sweet  child,  Charity  I 
It  does  one's  heart  a  good  to  see  t 
In  her  milk-white  simple  dress — 
In  her  meek,  bright,  loveliness — 
With  her  ever-giving  hand — 
With  her  peace-enchanting  wand — 
With  her  osier  basket  white — 
With  her  vase  of  something  bright 
Hid  in  her  dress  quite  cunningly : 
God-loved — pure  child — Charity  I 


181 


89.   The  Everlasting  Church. 


THERE  Is  not,  and  there  neier  was,  on  this  earth,  an  in- 
stitution so  well  deserving  of  examination  as  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church.    The  history  of  that  Church  joins  together 


■  I) ' 


#:; 


»i  jl 


.: 


182 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


the  two  great  ages  of  civilization.  No  other  institution  is 
left  standing  which  cairies  the  mind  back  to  the  time  when 
the  smoke  of  sacrifice  rose  firom  the  Pantheon,  and  when 
camelopards  and  tigers  bomided  in  the  Flavian  amphi- 
theatre. 

2.  The  proudest  royal  houses  are  but  of  yesterday,  when 
compared  with  the  line  of  the  Supreme  Pontiffs.  That  line 
we  trace  back,  in  an  unbroken  series,  from  the  pope  who 
crowned  Napoleon  in  the  nineteenth  century,  to  the  pope  who 
crowned  Pepin  in  the  eighth;  and  far  beyond  the  time  of 
Pepin  does  this  august  dynasty  extend. 

3.  The  republic  of  Venice  came  next 'in  antiquity.  But 
the  republic  of  Venice  was  modem  when  compared  with  the 
papacy ;  and  the  republic  of  Venice  is  gone,  and  the  papacy 
remains,  not  in  decay,  not  a  mere  antique,  but  full  of  life  and 
youthful  vigor.  The  Catholic  Church  is  still  sending  to  the 
farthest  ends  of  the  world  missionaries  as  zealous  as  those 
who  landed  in  Kent  with  St.  Augustin,  and  still  confronting 
hostile  kings  wiili  the  same  spirit  with  which  she  confronted 
Attila. 

4.  The  number  of  her  children  is  greater  than  in  any  for- 
mer age.  Her  acquisitions  in  the  New  Wold  have  more  than 
compensated  her  for  what  she  has  lost  in  the  Old.  Her  spiritual 
ascendency  extends  over  the  vast  countries  which  lie  between 
the  plains  of  Missouri  and  Cape  Horn;  countries  which,  a 
century  hence,  may  not  improbably  contain  a  population  as 
large  as  that  which  now  inhabits  Europe.  The  members  of 
her  communiou  ^ire  v^crtainly  not  fewer  than  two  hundred  mil- 
lions. Nor  do  we  see  any  sign  nhich  indicates  that  the  term 
of  her  long  dominion  is  approaching. 

5.  She  Law  the  commencement  of  all  the  governments  and 
of  all  the  ecclesiastical  establishments  that  now  exist  in  the 
world,  and  feels  no  assurance  that  she  is  not  destined  to  see 
tlie  end  of  them  all.  She  was  respected  before  the  Saxon  had 
set  foot  in  Britain,  before  the  Frank  had  passed  the  Rhine, 
when  Grecian  eloquence  still  flourished  at  Antioch,  when  idols 
were  still  worshipped  in  the  temple  of  Mecca ;  and  she  may 
still  exist  in  undiminished  vigor,  when  some  traveller  from 


1 


WELCOME  TO  THE  BHINE. 


183 


New  Zealand  shall,  in  the  midst  of  a  vast  solitade,  take  his 
stand  upon  a  broken  arch  of  London  Bridge,  to  sketch  the 
ruins  of  St.  Paul's. 


40.  Welcome  to  the  Bhute. 

The  German  army  of  liberators,  on  their  return  from  France,  are 
said  to  have  burst  into  a  national  chant  of  welcome  tathe  Rhine,  on 
coming  in  sight  of  that  celebrated  river. 

The  chorus  of  this  song  is  well  adapted  for  the  purpose  of  simulta- 
neous reading  in  class. 

SINOLE  TOIGB. 

IT  is  the  Rhine  !  onr  mountain  vineyards  laying, 
I  see  the  bright  flood  shine  I 
Sing  on  the  march,  with  every  banner  waving — 
Smg,  brothers,  'tis  the  Rhine  1 

CHORUS. 

The  Rhine  I  the  Rhine  1  oar  own  imperial  river  ! 

Be  glory  on  thy  tiaoV  ! 
We  left  thy  shores,  to  die  or  to  deliver ; — 

We  bear  thee  Freedom  back  ! 

SINGLE   VOICE. 

Hail  1  hail  1  my  childhood  knew  thy  rush  of  water, 

Even  as  my  mother's  song  ; 
That  sound  went  past  me  on  the  field  of  slaughter, 

And  heart  and  arm  giew  strong  1 


CHORUS. 


Roll  proudly  on  ! — ^brave  blood  is  with  thee  sweeping, 

Pour'd  out  by  sons  of  thine, 
Where  sword  and  spirit  forth  in  joy  were  leaping, 

Like  thee,  victorious  Rhine  ! 


j^S.fW'i-TO'li^gSTO^a^^li^^^lS;' 


""'i.»S.««kA!»M*i.-  . 


f 


184 


j 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


SINGLE   VOICE. 


Home  1 — home  I — thy  glad  wave  hath  a  tone  of  greeting, 

Thy  path  is  by  my  home : 
Even  now  my  children  count  the  hours  till  meeting. 

Oh,  ransom'd  ones,  I  come  ! 


i 


//         CHORUS.  ' 

Go,  tell  the  seas  that  chain  shall  bind  thee  never, 
Sound  on  by  hearth  and  shrine  ! 

Sing  through  the  hills  that  thou  art  free  forever- 
Lift  up  thy  voice,  O  Rhine  1 

f 


1 


TBE  BEE  HIVE. 


185 


41.   The  Bee-hive. 


ting, 


NATURE  affords  but  few  more  striking  evidences  of  the 
wisdom  and  the  goodness  of  the  Creator,  than  may  be  ob- 
served in  the  labors  of  bees.  The  observer  is  at  a  logs  which 
to  admire  most,  the  wonderful  manner  in  which  these  insects 
are  adapted  to  their  circumstances,  or  the  unity,  industry, 
loyalty,  and  sagacity  which  prevail  among  them. 

2.  When  they  begin  to  work  in  their  hives,  they  divide 
themselves  into  four  companies ;  one  of  which  roves  the  fields 
in  search  of  materials ;  another  employs  itself  in  laying  out 
the  bottom  and  partitions  of  their  cells ;  a  third  is  employed 
in  smoothing  the  walls ;  and  the  fourth  company  brings  food 
for  the  rest,  or  relieves  those  who  return  with  their  respective 
burdens. 

3.  But  they  are  not  kept  constantly  at  one  employment; 
they  often  change  the  tasks  assigned  them ;  those  that  have 
been  at  work,  being  permitted  to  go  abroad,  and  those  that 
have  been  in  the  fields  take  their  places 

4.  They  seem  even  to  have  signs  by  which  they  understand 
each  other ;  for  when  any  of  them  wants  food,  he  holds  out 
his  trunk  towards  the  bee  from  which  he  expects  it.  The 
latter,  understanding  the  desire  of  his  companion,  immediately 


186 


THE  THIBD  READER. 


W 


i  ! 


deposits  for  his  ase  a  small  quantity  of  honey.  Hicir  diligence 
and  labor  are  so  great  that  in  a  few  days  they  aio  enabled  to 
make  cells  sufficient  for  several  thousand  bees.  In  the  plan 
and  formation  of  these  cells  they  display  a  wonderful  sagacity. 

5.  The  danger  of  being  stung  by  bees,  may  be  in  a  great 
measure  prevented  by  remaining  quiet.  A  thousand  ^s  will 
fly  and  buzz  about  a  person  without  hurting  him,  if  h<  .tands 
perfectly  still  and  does  not  disturb  them  even  if  they  a.e  near 
his  face.  It  is  said  that  9^  person  is  in  perfect  safety  in  the 
midst  of  a  swarm  of  bees,  if  he  is  careful  to  shut  his  mouth, 
and  breathe  gently  through  his  nostrils. 

6.  Many  amusing  stories  are  told  about  the  effect  produced 
by  the  sting  of  bees.  In  1825,  a  mob  attacked  the  house  of 
a  gentleman  in  Germany.  He  endeavored  in  vain  to  dissuade 
them  from  their  designs ;  at  length  when  every  thing  else  had 
failed,  he  ordered  his  servants  to  bring  a  large  bee-hive  which 
he  threw  into  the  midst  of  the  enraged  multitude.  The  result 
answered  bis  expectations.  The  mobites,  stung  by  the  bees, 
immediiitei}  fled  in  all  directions,  and  thus  gave  the  gentleman 
time  tv>  t'SC'ipe  from  their  fury. 

1.  Bees  have  one  fault  common  to  bad  boys,  they  are  in- 
clined to  light  among  themselves.  Quarrels  and  combats  are 
frequent  among  them.  Sometimes  it  seems  that  their  contests 
are  commenced  in  the  hive,  as  the  combatants  may  often  be 
seen  coming  out  in  the  greatest  fury,  and  joining  in  the  deadly 
strife  the  moment  they  reach  the  door  of  the  hive.  In  some 
cases  a  bee  peaceably  settled  on  the  outside  of  the  hive  is  rude- 
ly jostled  by  another,  and  then  a  fierce  struggle  is  commenced, 
each  endeavoring  to  obtain  the  advantage  of  the  position. 

8.  They  turn,  dance  about,  throttle  each  other,  and  such  is 
their  bitter  eagerness,  that  a  person  can  approach  near  to  them 
without  their  perceiving  it.  Other  times,  the  combat  takes 
place  in  the  hive,  and  in  those  cases  the  contest  usually  con- 
tinues until  one  kills  the  other ;  then  the  victor  takes  up  the 
dead  body  of  his  antagonist  and  carries  it  outside  the  hive. 

9.  Bees  are  remarkable  for  their  industry,  and  those  among 
them  that  will  not,  or  cannot  work,  are  driven  from  the  hive 
and  not  permitted  to  return. 


THE  child's  wish  DT  JUNE. 


187 


42.    The  Child's  Wish  in  June. 

1.  ll/rOTHER,  dear  mother,  the  winds  are  at  play  • 
-l*J-  Prithee,  let '  >o  be  idle  today : 

Look,  dear  mo  he  lowers  all  lie 

Languidly,  iin  ht  blue  sky. 

2.  See,  how  slowl,  .     amlet  glides ; 
Look,  how  the  violet  roguishly  hides ; 
Even  the  butterfly  rests  on  the  rose. 
And  scarcely  sips  the  sweets  as  he  goes. 

3.  Poor  Tray  is  asleep  in  the  noonday  sun, 
And  the  flies  go  about  him  one  by  or^e ; 
And  pftssy  sits  near  with  a  sleepy  grace, 
Without  ever  thinking  of  washing  her  face. 

4.  There  flies  a  bird  to  a  neighboring  tree, 
But  very  lazily  fiieth  he, 

And  he  sits  and  twitters  a  gentle  note, 
That  scarcely  ruffles  his  little  throat. 

6.  You  bid  me  l)e  busy  j  but,  mother,  hear 

How. the  humdrum  grasshopper  soundeth  near; 
And  the  soft  west  wind  is  so  light  in  its  play. 
It  scarcely  moves  a  leaf  on  the  spray. 

6.  I  wish,  oh,  I  wish  I  was  yonder  cloud, 
That  sails  about  with  its  misty  shroud ; 
Books  and  work  I  no  more  should  see, 
And  I'd  come  and  float,  dear  mother,  o'er  thee. 


^ 

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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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121 


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«*  1^   12.2 

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FhologFaphic 

Sciences 

CorpOTation 


23  WBT  MAIN  STRUT 

WnSTIR.N.Y.  USM 

(716)>72-4S03 


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.■-.0gimn<^ 


1^8  THE  THIBD  BFAPFiTU 


43.   The  Martyr's  Bot. 

¥E  have  a  tale  to  tell  our  yoaog  readers,  of  Rome  in  the 
early  days  of  the  Christian  religion. 

In  the  third  century  after  Christ,  towards  the  close  of  a  mild 
September  day,  in  one  of  the  most  imposing  private  buildings, 
dwelt  a  noble  Roman  matron. 

At  the  time  that  we  discover  her  she  is  busily  engaged  over 
a  piece  of  work,  which  evidently  has  no  personal  use.  Upon 
a  long  rich  strip  of  gold  cloth  she  is  embroidering  with  still 
richer  gold  thread ;  and  occasionally  she  has  recourse  to  one 
or  another  of  several  elegant  caskets  upon  the  table,  from 
which  she  takes  out  a  pearl,  or  a  genu  set  in  gold,  and  intro- 
duces it  into  the  design.  It  looks  as  if  the  precious  orna- 
ments of  earlier*  days  were  being  devoted  to  some  higher 
purpose. 

2.  But  as  time  goes  on,  some  little  uneasiness  may  be  ob- 
served to  come  over  her  calm  thoughts,  hitherto  absorbed,  to 
all  appearance,  in  her  work.  She  now  occasionally  raises  her 
eyes  from  it  towards  the  entrance ;  sometimes  she  listens  for 
footsteps,  and  seems  disappointed.  She  looks  up  towards  the 
sun ;  then  perhaps  turns  her  glance  towards  a  clepsydra  or 
water-clock,  on  a  bracket  near  her  ;  but  just  as  a  feeling  of 
more  serious  anxiety  begins  to  make  an  impression  on  her 
countenance,  a  cheerfril  rap  strikes  the  housendoor,  and  she 
bends  forward  with  a  radiant  look  to  meet  the  welcome  visitor. 

3.  It  is  a  youth  full  of  grace,  and  sprightliness,  and  candor, 
that  comes  forward  with  light  and  buoyant  steps  across  the 
atrium,  towards  the  inner  hall ;  and  we  shall  hardly  .find  time 
to  sketch  him  before  he  reaches  it.  He  is  about  fourteen 
years  old,  but  tall  for  that  age,  with  elegance  of  form  and 
manliness  of  bearing.  His  bare  neck  and  limbs  are  well  devel- 
oped by  healthy  exercise ;  his  featm'es  display  an  open  and 
warm  heart ;  while  his  lofty  forehead,  round  which  his  brown 
hair  naturally  curls,  beams  with  a  bright  intelligence.  A  bun- 
dle of  papers  and  vellum  rolls  fastened  together,  and  carried 


, 


THE  ]BtABTXB'S  BOT. 


189 


by  an  old  servant  behind  him,  shows  ns  that  he  is  jnst  retoro- 
ing  home  from  school. 

4.  While  we  have  been  thus  noting  him,  he  has  received  his 
mother's  embrace,  and  has  set  himself  low  by  her  feet.  She 
gazes  upon  him  for  some  time  in  silence,  as  if  to  discover  in 
his  countenance  the  cause  of  his  unusual  delay,  for  he  is  an 
hour  late  in  his  return.  But  he  meets  her  glance  with  so 
frank  a  look,  and  with  such  a  smile  of  innocence,  that  every 
cloud  of  doubt  is  in  a  moment  dispelled,  and  she  addresses  him 
as  follows : 

6.  "What  has  detained  you  to-day,  my  dearest  boy?  No 
accident,  I  trust,  has  happened  to  you  on  the  way  ?" 

"Oh,  none,  I  assure  you,  sweetest  mother ;  on  the  contrary, 
all  has  been  delightful, — so  much  so,  that  I  can  scarcely  ven- 
ture to  tell  you." 

A  look  of  soft  smiling  entreaty  drew  from  the  open-hearted 
boy  a  delicious  laugh  as  he  continued : 

6.  "Well,  I  suppose  I  must.  You  know  I  am  never  happy, 
and  cannot  sleep,  if  I  have  failed  to  tell  you  all  the  bad  and 
the  good  of  the  day  about  myself."  (The  mother  smiled  agam, 
wondering  what  the  bad  was.)  "  I  was  reading  the  other  day 
that  the  Scythians  each  evening  cast  into  an  urn  a  white  or  a 
black  stone,  according  as  the  day  had  been  happy  or  unhappy ; 
If  I  had  to  do  so,  it  would  serve  to  mark,  in  white  or  black, 
the  days  on  which  I  have,  or  have  not,  an  opportunity  of  re- 
lating to  you  all  that  I  have  done.  But  to-day,  for  the  first 
time,  I  have  a  doubt,  a  fear  of  conscience,  whether  I  ought  io 
tell  you  all." 

*l.  Did  the  mother's  heart  flutter  more  than  usual,  as  from 
a  first  anxiety,  or  was  there  a  softer  solicitude  dimming  her 
eye,  that  the  youth  should  seize  her  hand  and  put  it  tenderly 
to  his  lips  while  he  thus  replied  ? 

"Fear  nothing,  mother  most  beloved,  your  son  has  done 
nothing  that  may  give  you  pain.  Only  say,  do  you  wish  to 
hear  all  that  has  befallen  me  to-day,  or  only  the  cause  of  my 
late  return  home?" 

,  "Tell  me  all,  dear  Pancratius,"  she  answered;  "nothing 
that  concerns  you  can  bB  indifTerent  to  me." 


j.-.imMim^» 


if  ■ 


lifO 


THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 


•I    ! 


8.  "Well,  then,"  he  began,  "this  last  day  of  my  frequent- 
log  school  appears  to  me  to  have  been  singularly  blessed,  and 
yet  full  of  strange  occurrences.  First,  I  was  crowned  as  the 
successful  competitor  in  a  declamation,  which  our  good  mas- 
ter Cassianus  set  us  for  our  work  during  the  morning  hours ; 
and  this  led,  as  you  will  hear,  to  some  singular  discoveries. 
The  subject  was,  'That  the  real  philosopher  should  be  ever 
ready  to  die  for  truth.'  I  never  heard  any  thing  so  cold  or 
insipid  (I  hope  it  is  not  wrong  to  say  so)  as  the  compositions 
read  by  my  companions.  It  was  not  their  fault,  poor  fellows  I 
what  truth  can  they  possess,  and  what  inducements  can  ^  they 
have,  to  die  for  any  of  their  vain  opinions. 

9.  "  But  to  a  Christian,  what  charming  suggestions  snch  a 
theme  naturally  makes  I  And  so  I  felt  it.  My  heart  glowed, 
and  all  my  thoughts  seemed  to  burn,  as  I  wrote  my  essay,  full 
of  the  lessons  you  >  ./.ve  taught  me,  and  of  the  domestic  exam? 
pies  that  are  before  me.  The  son  of  a  martyr  could  not  feel 
otherwise.  But  when  my  turn  came  to  read  my  declamation, 
I  found  that  my  feelings  had  nearly  fatally  betrayed  me.  In 
the  warmth  of  my  recitation,  the  word  'Christian'  escaped 
my  lips  instead  of  '  philospher,'  and  '  faith '  instead  of  '  truth.' 
At  the  first  mistake,  I  saw  Cassianus  start ;  at  the  second, 
I  saw  a  tear  glisten  in  his  eye,  as  bending  lovingly  towards 
me,  he  said,  in  a  whisper,  '  Beware,  my  child ;  there  ar«  sharp 
ears  Ustening.'" 

10.  "What,  then,"  interrupted  the  mother,  "is  Cassianus  a 
Christian  ?  I  chose  his  school  for  you  because  it  was  in  the 
highest  repute  for  learning  and  for  morality ;  and  now,  indeed, 
I  thank  Qod  that  I  did  so.  But  in  these  days  of  danger  and 
apprehension  we  are  obliged  to  live  as  strangers  in  our  own 
land,  scarcely  knowing  the  faces  of  our  brethren.  Certainly, 
had  Cassianus  proclaimed  his  faith,  his  school  would  soon  have 
been  deserted.  But  go  on,  my  dear  boy.  Were  his  appre- 
hensions well  grounded  ?" 

11.  "I  fear  so ;  for  while  the  great  body  of  my  schoolfel- 
lows, not  noticing  these  slips,  vehemently  applauded  my  hearty 
declamation,  I  saw  the  dark  eyes  of  Corvinus  bent  acowlingly 
i^Km  me,  as  he  bit  his  lip  in  manifest  anger." 


THE  MARTTB  S  BOT. 


191 


"And  who  is  he,  my  child,  that  was  so  dbpleased,  and 
wherefore?" 

"He  is  the  oldest  and  strongest,  but,  nnfortonately,  the 
dullest  boy  in  the  school.  But  this,  you  know,  is  not  his 
fault.  Only,  I  know  not  why,  he  seems  ever  to  have  had  an 
ill-will  and  grudge  against  me,  the  cause  of  which  I  cannot 
understand." 

"  Did  he  say  aught  to  you,  or  do  ?" 

12.  "Yes,  and  was  the  cause  of  my  delay.  For  when  we 
went  forth  from  school  into  the  field  by  the  river,  he  addressed 
me  insultingly  in  the  presence  of  our  companions,  and  said, 
'Gome,  Pancratius,  this,  I  understand,  is  the  last  tune  we 
meet  here  (he  laid  a  particular  emphasis  on  the  word)  ;  but  I 
have  a  long  score  to  demand  payment  of  from  you.  You  have 
loved  to  show  your  superiority  in  school  over  me  and  others 
older  and  better  than  yourself:  I  saw  your  supercilious  looks 
at  me  as  you  spouted  your  high-flown  declamation  to-day ;  ay, 
and  I  caught  expressions  in  it  which  you  may  live  to  rue,  and 
that  very  soon ;  for  my  father,  you  well  know,  is  Prefect  of 
the  city  (the  mother  slightly  started) ;  and  something  is  pre- 
paring which  may  nearly  concern  you.  Before  you  leave  us 
I  must  have  my  revenge.  If  you  are  worthy  of  your  name, 
and  it  be  not  an  empty  word,*  let  us  fairly  contend  in  more 
manly  strife  than  that  of  the  style  and  tables.f  Wrestle,  with 
me,  or  try  the  cestus  %  against  me.  I  bum  to  humble  you  as 
you  deserve  before  these  witnesses  of  your  insolent  triumphs.'" 

13.  The  anxious  mother  bent  eagerly  forward  as  she  listened, 
and  scarcely  breathed.  "And  what."  she  exclaimed,  "did  you 
answer,  my  dear  son?" 

"  I  told  him  gently  that  he  was  quite  mistaken  ;  for  never 
had  I  consciously  done  any  thing  that  could  give  pain  to  him 
or  any  of  my  schoolfellows ;  nor  did  I  ever  dream  of  claiming 

*  The  paneraiium  was  the  exercise  which  combined  all  other  pergonal 
contests  ;  wrestling,  boxing,  &c. 

fThe  implements  of  writing  in  schools,  the  tablets  being  covered 
with  wax,  on  which  the  letters  were  traced  by  the  sharp  point,  effaced 
by  the  flat  top,  of  the  style. 

X  The  hand'buidajges  wom  in  pugilistio  combate. 


aawsw***' 


X92 


THE  THIBD  MBATtWRr 


li   i 


eaperiority  over  them.  'And  as  to  what  yon  propose/  I 
added,  'you  know,  Gorvinus,  that  I  have  always  refused  to 
indulge  hi  personal  combats,  which,  beginnmg  in  a  cool  trial 
of  skill,  end  in  an  angry  strife,  hatred,  and  wish  for  revenge. 

14.  " '  How  much  less  coidd  I  think  of  entering  on  them 
now,  when  you  avow  that  you  are  anxious  to  begin  them  with 
those  evil  feelings  which  are  usually  their  bad  end?'  Our 
schoolmates  had  now  formed  a  circle  round  us ;  and  I  clearlv 
saw  that  they  were  all  against  me,  for  they  had  hoped  to  enjoy 
some  of  the  delights  of  their  cruel  games ;  I  therefore  cheer- 
fully added,  'And  now,  my  comrades,  good-by,  and  may  all 
happiness  attend  yoxL  I  part  from  you  as  I  have  lived  with 
you,  in  peace.'  'Not  so,'  replied  Gorvinus,  now  purple  in  the 
face  with  fury ;  'but'" — 

15.  The  boy's  countenance  became  crimsoned,  his  voice 
quivered,  his  body  trembled,  and,  half  choked,  he  sobbed  out, 
"  I  cannot  go  on ;  I  dare  not  tell  the  rest  I " 

"  I  entreat  you,  for  God's  sake,  and  for  the  love  yon  bear 
your  father's  memory,"  said  the  mother,  placing  her  hand 
upon  her  son's  head,  "conceal  nothing  from  me.  I  shall  never 
again  have  rest  if  you  tell  me  not  all.  What  further  said  or 
did  Gorvinus?" 

The  boy  recovered  hunself  by  a  moment's  pause  and  a  sUent 
prayer,  and  then  proceeded : 

16.  " '  Not  so  1 '  exclaimed  Gorvinus, '  not  so  do  you  depart, 
cowardly  worshipper  of  an  ass's  heud !  Yon  have  concealed 
your  abode  fh)m  us,  but  I  will  find  you  out ;  till  then  bear 
this  token  of  my  determined  purpose  to  be  revenged  !'  Bo 
saying  he  dealt  me  a  furious  blow  upon  the  face,  ffhich  made 
me  reel  and  stagger,  while  a  shout  of  savage  del%ht  broke 
forth  from  the  boys  around  us." 

He  burst  into  tears,  which  reUeved  him,  bnd  then  went  on. 


THE  MABTYH'S  boy. 


193 


II- :■ 


44   The  Mabtxb's  Boy — condvded, 

OH,  how  I  felt  my  blood  boil  at  that  moment  I  how  my 
heart  seemed  bursting  within  me ;  and  a  voice  appeared 
to  whisper  in  my  ear  scornfully  the  name  of  '  coward  I '  It 
surely  was  an  evil  spirit.  I  felt  that  I  was  strong  enough — 
my  rising  anger  made  me  so — to  seize  my  unjust  assailant  by 
the  throat,  and  cast  him  gasping  on  the  ground.  I  heard  al- 
ready the  shout  of  applause  that  would  have  hailed  my  victory 
and  turned  the  tables  against  him.  It  was  the  hardest  strug- 
gle of  my  life ;  never  were  flesh  and  blood  so  strong  within 
me.  0  God !  may  they  never  be  again  so  tremendously  pow- 
erful!" 

"And  wnat  did  you  do,  then,  my  darling  boy?"  gasped 
forth  the  trembling  matron. 

2.  He  replied,  "  My  good  angel  conquered  the  demon  at  my 
side.  I  thought  of  my  blessed  Lord  in  the  house  of  Gaiphas, 
surrounded  by  scoffing  enemies,  and  struck  ignominiously  on 
the  cheek,  yet  meek  and  forgiving.  Gould  I  wish  to  be  other- 
wise ?  I  stretched  forth  my  hand  to  Gorvinus,  and  said,  *  May 
God  forgive  you,  as  I  freely  and  fully  do ;  and  may  he  bless 
you  abundantly.'  Gassianus  came  up- at  that  moment,  having 
seen  all  from  a  distance,  and  the  youthful  crowd  quickly  dis- 
persed. I  entreated  him,  by  our  common  faith,  now  acknowl- 
edged between^  ns,  not  to  pursue  Gorvinus  for  what  he  had 
done ;  and  I  obtained  his  promise.  And  now,  sweet  mother," 
murmured  the  boy,  in  soft,  gentle  accents,  into  his  parent's 
bosom,  "  do  you  not  think  I  may  call  this  a  happy  day  ?" 

3.  Silently,  and  almost  unknowingly,  he  had  changed  his 
position,  and  was  kneeling  before  her ;  and  well  he  might ; 
for  was  she  not  to  him  as  a  guardian  spirit,  who  had  shielded 
him  ever  from  evil ;  or  might  he  not  well  see  in  her  the  living 
saint  whose  virtues  had  been  his  model  from  childhood  ?  Lu- 
cina  broke  the  silence,  in  a  tone  full  of  grave  emotion. 

i,  **  The  time  has  at  length  tM)me  my  dear  child,"  she  said, 

9 


-imkuum^-- 


194 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


"  which  has  long  been  the  snbject  of  my  earnest  prayer,  which 
I  have  yearned  for  in  the  exuberance  of  maternal  love.  Eager- 
ly have  I  watched  in  thee  the  opening  germ  of  each  Christian 
virtae,  and  thanked  God  as  it  appeared.  I  have  noted  thy 
docility,  thy  gentleness,  thy  diligence,  thy  piety,  and  thy  love 
of  God  and  man.  I  have  seen  with  joy  thy  lively  faith,  and 
thy  indifference  to  worldly  things,  and  thy  tenderness  to  the 
poor.  But  I  have  been  waiting  with  anxiety  for  the  hour 
which  should  decisively  show  me,  whether  thou  wouldst  be 
content  with  the  poor  legacy  of  thy  mother's  weakly  virtue, 
or  art  the  tme  inheritor  of  thy  martyred  father's  nobler  gifts. 
That  hour,  thank  God,  has  come  to-day  1" 

5.  "  What  have  I  done,-then,  that  should  thus  have  changed 
or  raised  thy  opinion  of  me  ?"  asked  Pancratius. 

"  Listen  to  me,  my  son.  This  day,  which  was  to  be  the  last 
of  thy  school  education,  methinks  that  our  merciful  Lord  has 
been  pleased  to  give  thee  a  lesson  worth  it  all ;  and  to  prove 
that  thou  hast  put  off  the  things  of  a  child,  and  must  be  treated 
henceforth  as  a  man :  for  thou  canst  think  and  speak,  yea,  and 
act  as  one." 

"  How  dost  thou  mean,  dear  mother?" 

6.  "What  thou  hast  told  me  of  thy  declamation  this  morn- 
ing," she  replied,  "proves  to  me  how  full  thy  heart  must  have 
been  of  noble  and  generous  thoughts ;  thou  art  too  sincere  and 
honest  to  have  written,  and  fervently  expressed,  that  it  was  a 
glorious  duty  to  die  for  the  faith,  if  thou  hadst  not  believed 
it,  and  felt  it." 

"  And  truly  I  do  believe  and  feel  it,"  interrupted  the  boy. 
"What  greater  happiness  can  a  Christian  desire  on  earth  ?" 

7.  "  Yes,  my  child,  thou  sayest  most  truly,"  continued  Lu- 
cina.  "But  I  should  not  have  been  satisfied  with  words. 
What  followed  afterwards  has  proved  to  me  that  thou  canst 
bear  intrepidly  and  patiently,  not  merely  pain,  but  what  I 
know  it  must  have  been  harder  for  thy  young  patrician  blood 
to  stand,  the  stinging  ignominy  of  a  disgraceful  blow,  and  the 
scornful  words  and  glances  of  an  unpitying  multitude.  Nay 
more ;  thou  hast  proved  thyself  strong  enough  to  forgive  and 
to  pray  for  thine  enemy.    This  day  thou  hast  trodden  the 


K 


THE  MABTYB'S  BOT. 


195 


higher  paths  of  the  mountaia,  with  the  cross  upon  thy  shoulders ; 
one  step  more,  and  thoa  wilt  plant  it  on  its  summit.  Thou 
hast  proved  thyself  the  genuine  son  of  the  martyr  Quintinus. 
Dost  thou  wi^h  to  be  like  him  ?'' 

8.  "  Mother,  mother  !  dearest,  sweetest  mother  1"  broke  out 
the  panting  youth ;  "  could  I  be  his  genuine  son,  and  hot  wish 
to  resemble  him  ?  Though  I  never  enjoyed  the  happiness  of 
knowing  him,  has  not  his  unage  been  ever  before  my  mmd  ? 
Has  he  not  been  the  very  pride  of  my  thoughts  ? 

9.  "When  each  year  the  solemn  commemoration  has  been 
made  of  hun,  as  of  one  of  the  white-robed  army  that  surrounds 
the  Lamb,  in  whose  blood  he  washed  his  garments,  how  have 
my  heart  and  my  flesh  exulted  in  his  glory ;  and  how  have  I 
prayed  to  him,  in  the  warmth  of  filial  piety,  that  he  would  ob- 
tain for  me,  not  fame,  not  distinction,  not  wealth,  not  earthly 
joy,  but  what  he  valued  more  than  all  these :  nay,  that  the 
only  thing  which  he  has  left  on  earth  may  be  applied,  as  I 
know  he  now  considers  it  would  most  usefully  and  most  nobly 
be.'? 

"What  is  that,  my  son?" 

10.  "  It  is  his  blood,"  replied  the  youth,  "  which  yet  remains 
flowing  in  my  vems,  and  in  these  only.  I  know  he  must  wish 
that  it  too,  like  what  he  held  in  his  own,  may  be  poured  out 
in  love  of  his  Redeemer,  and  in  testimony  of  his  faith." 

"  Enough,  enough,  my  child  I"  exclauned  the  mother,  thrill- 
ing with  a  holy  emotion ;  "  take  from  thy  neck  the  badge  of 
childhood,  I  have  a  better  token  to  give  thee." 

He  obeyed,  and  put  away  the  golden  bulla. 

11.  "Thou  hast  inherited  from  thy  father,"  spoke  the 
mother,  with  still  deeper  solemnity  of  tone,  "  a  noble  nanie,  a 
high  station,  ample  riches,  every  worldly  advantage.  But 
there  is  one  treasure  which  I  have  reserved  for  thee  from  his 
inheritance,  till  thou  shouldst  prove  thyself  worthy  of  it.  I 
have  concealed  it  from  thee  till  now ;  though  I  valued  it  more 
than  gold  and  jewels.  It  is  now  time  that  I  make  it  over  to 
thee.?' 

12.  With  trembling  hands  she  drew  from  her  neck  the 
golden  chain  which  hung  round  it ;  and  for  the  first  time  her 


196 


THE  THmO  BEADEB. 


H 


son  saw  that  it  supported  a  small  bag  or  purse  richly  em- 
broidered with  pearls.  She  opened  it,  and  drew  from  it  a 
sponge,  dry  indeed,  but  deeply  stained. 

"This,  too,  is  thy  father's  blood,  Pancratius,"  she  said, 
with  faltering  voice  and  streaming  eyes.  "  I  gathered  it  my- 
self from  his  death-wound,  as,  disguised,  I  stood  by  his  side, 
and  saw  him  die  for  Christ." 

She  gazed  upon  it  fondly,  and  kissed  it  fbrvently  ;  and  her 
gushing  tears  fell  on  it,  and  moistened  it  once  more.  And 
thus  liquefied  again,  its  color  glowed  bright  and  warm,  as  if  it 
had  only  just  left  the  martyr's  heart. 

13.  The  holy  matron  put  it  to  her  son's  quivering  lips,  and 
they  were  empurpled  with  its  sanctifying  touch.  He  venerated 
the  sacred  relic  with  the  deepest  emotions  of  a  Christian  and 
a  son ;  and  felt  as  if  his  father's  spu'it  had  descended  into 
him,  and  stirred  to  its  depths  the  full  vessel  of  his  heart,  that 
its  waters  might  be  ready  freely  to  flow.  The  whole  family 
thus  seemed  to  him  once  more  united. 

14.  Lucina  replaced  her  treasure  in  its  shrine,  and  hung  it 
round  the  neck  of  her  son,  saying :  "  When  next  it  is  moist- 
ened, may  it  be  from  a  nobler  stream  than  that  which  gushes 
from  a  weak  woman's  eyes  I "  But  Heaven  thought  not  so ; 
and  the  future  combatant  was  anointed,  and  the  future  martyr 
was  consecrated,  by  the  blood  of  his  father  mmgled  with  his 
mother's  tears. 


45.   Anna's  Offering  of  Samuel. 


SAMUEL,  a  renowned  and  holy  prophet,  was  from  his  in- 
fancy trained  up  to  virtue.  Anna,  his  mother,  had  for 
many  years  been  married  to  Elcana,  without  having  any  chil- 
dren. Overwhelmed  with  the  excess  of  sorrow,  she  wept  and 
prayed  to  God  for  comfort  to  her  affliction ;  she  joined  fasting 
to  her  prayers,  and  bound  herself  by  vow,  if  she  should  obtain 
a  son,  to  consecrate  hun  all  the  days  of  his  life  to  the  divine 
service.  Samuel  was  the  fruit  of  his  mother's  piety,  and  the 
recompeoBe  of  her  Mth. 


J  em- 
it a 

said, 
t  my- 
I  side, 


anna's  OFFERINQ  to  SAMUEL. 


197 


2.  In  a  son  like  him,  says  St.  Ghrysostom,  Anna  became 
more  happy  than  if  she  had  been  mother  of  the  greatest  prince 
upon  earth.  She  received  him  as  a  present  from  the  hand  of 
God,  and  in  compliance  with  her  vow,  hastened  to  give  him 
back  by  a  solemn  act  of  religion. 


id  her 
And 

IS  if  it 

pB,  and 
lerated 
an  and 
ed  into 
rt,  that 
I  family 

[hung  it 

J  moist- 
gushes 

not  so ; 
martyr 

jfith  his 


his  in- 
had  for 
iny  chil- 
rept  and 
d  fasting 
"  d  obtain 
le  divine 
land  the 


3.  As  soon  as  she  had  weaned  him,  she  carried  him  to  the 
tabernacle,  put  him  into  the  hands  of  Heli,  the  high-priest, 
and  consecrated  him  irrevocably,  as  she  had  promised,  to  the 
service  of  her  Creator.  Gratitude  and  piety  alone  guided  the 
tender  feelings  of  her  love ;  she  parted  with  her  child  at  a 


.4^JMknt' 


198 


THE  THinD  READER. 


time  when  the  charms  and  smiles  of  innocence  mode  him  the 
more  dear.  She  Icnew  what  was  good  for  her  son.  and  what 
was  acceptable  to  Qod. 

4.  Her  sacrifice  in  some  sort  seems  to  resemble  that  of 
Abraham.  She  offered  to  Ood  her  darling,  her  only  son ;  she 
offered  him  for  life,  and  stripped  herself  of  all  future  claim 
over  him.  The  mother's  piety  was  repaid  by  the  virtues  of 
her  son.  The  little  Samuel  ministered  to  the  Lord  under 
Heli's  direction  by  day,  and  at  night  slept  within  the  taber- 
nacle, near  the  ark  of  God,  and  there  it  wUs  that  God  favored 
him  with  a  special  revelation,  the  preparatory  walk  of  his 
future  greatness. 

5.  During  the  silence  of  the  night,  he  heard  a  voice  calling 
him  by  his  name ;  unskilled  as  yet  in  the  language  of  the 
Lord,  the  holy  youth  thought  that  it  had  been  Heli's  voice, 
hastily  rose,  and  asked  him  what  he  wanted.  Heli  told  him 
he  had  not  called,  bade  him  go  and  compose  himself  to  sleep. 
Samuel  had  scarce  laid  himself  down,  when  the  same  voice 
called  him  up  again ;  he  ran  to  the  high-priest,  who  ordered 
him  to  return  and  sleep.  Samuel  was  called  the  third  tkne ; 
he  again  rose  and  went  to  Heli,  who  perceived  that  the  Lord 
had  called  the  youth.  "  Go  sleep,"  said  he  to  him  ;  "  and  if 
thou  hear  the  voice  again,  thou  shalt  answer,  '  Speak,  Lord, 
for  thy  servant  heareth.'" 

6.  Samuel  retired  to  take  his  rest,  and  upon  hearing  himself 
called  by  name  for  the  fourth  time,  answered  in  the  words 
that  Heli  had  commanded  him.  The  Lord  then  informed 
Samuel  of  the  heavy  judgments  which  were  soon  to  fall  upon 
the  high-priest  and  his  family,  in  punishment  of  sins  that  were 
too  enormous  to  be  expiated  by  the  sacrifices  they  offered. 
He  declared  that  he  could  no  longer  bear  the  sinful  negligence 
of  a  father,  who,  knowing  the  disorders,  and  seeing  the  pro- 
fane excesses  of  his  two  sons,  had  contented  himself  with  a 
gentle  reprimand,  when  a  just,  zeal  for  the  honor  and  sanctity 
of  God's  altar  required  the  most  exemplary  severity. 

7.  Heli  was  very  pressing  the  next  morning  to  know  what 
the  Lord  had  said.  Samuel  showed  a  great  unwillingness  to 
speak,  and  nothing  but  Heli's  importunity  could  have  prevailed 


THE  BOT  AND  THE  CHILD  JESUS. 


199 


11; 


opon  him  to  impart  the  melancholy  secret.  Heli  humbly  sub- 
mitted to  the  divine  decrees,  and  with  the  deepest  regret  for 
his  past  misconduct,  became  sensible,  that  to  fulfil  the  duties 
of  a  father,  it  was  not  enough  to  be  singly  good,  that  he  more- 
over ought  to  have  endeavored  to  instil  goodness  into  his 
children ;  he  acknowledged  his  neglect,  and  resigned  himself 
to  the  punishment  thereof. 

8.  Heli,  says  St.  Gregory,  has  many  imitators  both  in  the 
Church  and  private  families.  Pastors  silently  behold  the 
disorders  of  their  flocks,  which  they  ouglit  to  correct ;  and 
parents,  cither  from  indolence  or  false  fondness,  suffer  those 
passions  to  grow  up  in  their  children,  which  ought  to  have 
been  checked  at  their  first  appearance.  Such  a  neglect  tends 
to  the  ruin  of  their  souls,  and  draws  down  God's  displeasure, 
both  upon  themselves  and  their  children. 


I 


46.   The  Bot  and  the  Child  Jesus. 

1.  A  MONG  green  pleasant  meadows, 
•^  All  in  a  grove  so  mild. 

Was  set  a  marble  image 

Of  the  Virgin  and  the  Child. 

2.  There  oft,  on  summer  evenings, 

A  lovely  boy  would  rove, 
To  play  beside  the  image 
That  sanctified  the  grove. 

8.  Oft  sat  his  mother  by  him, 
Among  the  shadows  dim, 
And  told  how  the  Lord  Jesus 
Was  once  a  child  like  him. 


4.  "And  now  from  highest  heaven 
He  doth  look  down  each  day, 
And  sees  whate'er  thou  doest, 
And  hears  what  thou  dost  say.'' 


■,»***p*'' 


200  THE  THIKD  BEADEB. 

5.  Thus  spake  his  tender  mother ; 

And  on  an  evening  bright, 
When  the  red  round  son  descended 
^Mid  clouds  of  crimson  light, — 

6.  Again  the  boy  was  playing ; 

And  earnestly  said  he, 
"  Oh,  beautiful  Lord  Jesus, 
Come  down  and  play  with  me. 

7.  I  will  find  thee  flowers  the  fairest, 

And  weave  for  thee  a  crown ; 
I  will  get  thee  ripe  red  strawberries 
If  thou  wilt  but  come  down. 

8.  "Oh,  holy,  holy  mother, 

Put  him  down  from  off  thy  knee ; 
For  in  these  silent  meadows 
There  are  none  to  play  with  me." 

9.  Thus  spake  the  boy  so  lovely ; 

The  while  his  mother  heard ; 
But  on  his  prayer  she  ponder'd, 
And  spake  to  him  no  word. 

10.  That  self-same  night  she  dreamed 

A  lovely  dream  of  joy ; 
She  thought  she  saw  young  Jesus, 
There  playing  with  the  boy. 

11.  "And  for  the  fruits  and  flowers 

Which  thou  hast  brought  to  me. 
Rich  blessings  shall  be  given, 
A  thousand-fold  to  thee. 


12.  "For  in  the  fields  of  heaven 

Thou  shalt  roam  with  me  at  will, 
And  of  bright  firuits  celestial 
Shall  have,  dear  child,  thy  fill.'' 


THE  HOLY  EUCHARIST. 

13.  Thus  tenderly  and  kindly 

The  fair  child  Jesus  spoke ; 
And  full  of  careful  musings, 
The  anxious  mother  woke. 

14.  And  thus  it  was  accomplish'd : 

In  a  short  month  and  a  day, 
That  lovely  boy,  so  gentle, 
Upon  his  death-bed  lay. 

15.  And  thus  he  spoke  in  dying : 

"  O  mother  dear  1  I  see 
The  beautiful  child  Jesus 
A-coming  down  to  me ; — 

16.  "And  in  his  hand  he  beareth 

Bright  flowers  as  white  as  snow, 
And  red  and  juicy  strawberries ; 
Dear  mother,  let  me  go.'' 

1*7.  He  died' — ^but  that  fond  mother 
Her  sorrow  did  restrain ; 
For  she  knew  he  was  with  Jesus, 
And  she  asked  him  not  again. 


201 


47.   The  Holy  Eucharist. 

¥E  invite  the  attention  of  our  young  readers  to  the  most 
holy  and  the  most  sublime  of  the  s^.oraments— the  Holy 
Eucharist.  To  die  for  one's  friend,  is  regarded  as  the  highest 
act  of  human  virtue ;  but  our  Divine  Lord  has  done  more  than 
this. 

2.  Not  only  has  he  ofifered  his  life  as  a  sacrifice,  to  save  us 
from  endless  misery,  from  that  just  punishment  which  we  have 
merited  by  our  sins,  but  with  a  love  more  tender  than  that  of 
a  mother,  he  has  left  us  his  own  sacred  body  and  blood  to  be 
our  food  and  nourishment  in  our  journey  through  this  world. 

9* 


202 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


3.  The  Holy  Eucharist  is  then  the  sacrament  which  contains 
the  body  and  blood  of  Christ,  under  the  form  or  appearance 
of  bread  and  wine.  The  history  of  this  sacred  institution  is 
contained  in  a  few  words.  Jesus  had  promised  his  disciples 
that  he  would  give  them  his  body  and  blood  to  be  their  food. 


I 


When  he  first  made  this  promise,  many  of  his  followers  would 
not  believe  his  word,  and  left  him.  But  his  Apostles  believed 
what  he  told  them,  though  they  did  not  know  in  what  manner 
he  would  redeem  his  promise.  ' 

4.  As  the  time  approached  when  our  blessed  Lord  was 
about  to  leave  this  world,  he  assembled  together  his  twelve 
faithful  Apostles,  for  the  purpose  of  eating  with  them  his  last 
supper.  After  this  supper  was  over,  Jesus  taking  bread  into 
his  sacred  hands,  blessed  it,  and  immediately  it  was  changed 
into  his  own  body,  which  he  gave  to  his  Apostles,  saying, 
"This  is  my  body." 

5.  He  then  took  the  wine  which  was  upon  the  table,  and 
blessed  it,  and  it  was  changed  into  his  blood,  which  he  also 


THE  HOLT  EU0HABI8T. 


203 


I 


gave  to  his  Apostles,  saying,  "This  is  my  blood  of  the  New 
Testament,  which  shall  be  shed  for  many  unto  the  remission 
of  sins."  And  then  added  :  "Do  this  for  a  commemoration 
of  me  » 

6.  Happy  moment  I  when  the  Apostles  received  for  the  first 
time  the  body  and  blood  of  onr  Divine  Lord.  We  may  well 
imagine  the  love,  the  fervor,  the  awe  which  filled  their  hearts 
at  that  august  moment.  With  what  reverence  did  St.  Peter 
approach  his  Lord  to  receive  from  his  sacred  hands  the  adora- 
ble elements  of  his  body  and  blood.  What  sentiments  of 
tender  affection  glowed  in  the  bosom  of  the  youthful  St.  John, 
as  he  bent  before  Jesus,  to  receive,  for  the  first  time,  the 
"  Holy  Communion." 

T.  This  holy  sacrament  is  called  the  Euchari^,  which  sig- 
nifies thanksgiving,  and  is  applied  to  it  in  remembrance  of 
the  thanksgiving  which  our  Saviour  offered  at  the  time  of  its 
institution,  and  to  remind  us  of  the  grateful  thanks  we  ought 
to  render  to  our  Divine  Lord  every  time  we  receive  it.  It  is 
sometimes  called  the  LortPs  Supper,  because  it  was  instituted 
at  the  last  supper  .which  Jesus  took  with  his  Apostles.  It  is 
most  commonly  called,  at  the  present  time,  the  Holy  Commvr 
nion,  because  by  it  we  are  united  so  intimately  with  Christ, 
and  forms  a  bond  of  union  among  Catholics  throughout  the 
world. 

8.  This  holy  sacrament  was  prefigured  in  the  old  law  by 
Melchisedec,  who  offered  sacrifice,  using  bread  and  wine.  But 
the  most  express  figure  was  the  killing  and  eating  of  the  Pas- 
chal  Lamb,  the  blood  of  which  was  sprinkled  on  the  doors  of 
those  whom  the  destroying  angel  was  to  spare.  So  Christ  is 
called  the  Lamb  of  God,  and  his  blood  being  sprinkled  over 
the  earth,  has  redeemed  man  from  sin. 

9.  The  matter  of  this  sacrament  consists  of  wheat  bread, 
and  wine  of  the  grape,  which  Christ  made  use  of,  and  without 
these  the  consecration  would  not  be  valid ;  a  small  portion  of 
water  is  mingled  with  the  wine,  in  remembrance  of  the  water 
mingled  with  blood,  which  flowed  ftom  our  Divine  Saviour's 
side,  when  pierced  with  a  lance  after  he  had  expired  on  the 
cross.    In  the  early  ages  of  the  Church,  communion  was  given 


«i*5Af 


204 


THE  THIBB  BEADEB. 


I 


in  both  of  these  consecrated  elements ;  bnt  by  degrees  vbfs 
custom  was  discontinued.  The  reception  under  both  forms 
was  not  deemed  necessary  by  our  holy  mother,  the  Church, 
because  Christ  being  wholly  present  under  either  form,  who- 
ever receives  under  one  kind  alone,  receives  the  true  body  and 
blood  of  Christ.  This  was  found  necessary,  also,  to  conjfound 
certain  heretics,  who  maintained  that  the  consecrated  bread 
contained  the  body  of  Christ  without  his  blood,  and  to  refute 
others,  who  held  that  the  reception  of  both  kinds  was  of  divine 
precept. 

10.  The  reception  of  this  holy  sacrament,  especially  for  the 
first  time,  is  the  most  important  act  of  a  Christian's  life. 
Children  who  have  not  received  it,  should  look  forward  with 
a  longing  desire  to  that  happy  period.  Every  action  of  theur 
lives,  from  the  dawn  of  reason  to  the  day  of  their  first  com- 
munion, should  be  made  a  preparation  for  that  sacred  event. 
They  should  never  forget  the  important  truth,  that  a  bad 
communion  renders  them  the  associates  of  devils,  and  marks 
them  as  candidates  for  hell,  while  a  good  communion  elevates 
them  to  the  companionship  of  angels,  and  seals  them  as  the 
children  of  God. 


48.   The  House  of  Lobetto. 

T'HIZ  house  of  Nazareth,  in  which  the  Blessed  Virgin  was 
born ;  in  which  our  Divine  Lord  passed  his  holy  childhood 
and  the  years  of  his  manhood  until  the  age  of  thirty,  became, 
after  the  death  of  the  Blessed  Yirgin,  an  object  of  peculiar 
veneration  to  the  early  Christians.  It  was  converted  into  a 
chapel,  where  mass  was  celebrated  every  day,  during  the  first 
centuries  of  the  Church.  Towards  the  close  of  the  ninth  cen- 
tury, when  Palestine  was  in  the  hands  of  the  Infidels,  this 
house  was  by  a  miracle  carried  through  the  air  into  Dalmatia. 
In  the  same  miraculous  manner  it  was  finally  translated  to 
Loretto,  where  it  now  stands  under  the  donfe  of  a  splendid 
cathedral,  which  has  been  erected  around  it. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LOBETTO. 


203 


12.  Sw^ly  low  the  laarelfl  bending, 

TraU  their  bright  leaves  on  the  sod, 
For  the  angels  are  descending, 

With  the  holy  house  of  God. 
O'er  the  Adriatic  gliding, 

Bathed  in  light,  most  hearenly  fair, 
Silently  the  air  dividing. 

Angels  their  blest  burden  bear ; 
Blissful  dome,  most  dear  and  holy, 

Speeding  softly  o'er  the  sea, 
Lanrel  branches  bowing  lowly, 

Bid  us  bend  the  suppliant  knee. 

3.  Weep,  Dalmatia,  for  the  treasure 

Borne  from  off  thy  sunny  shore, 
For  thy  tears  in  untold  measure, 

Shall  b^  pour'd  forevermore ; 
Far  from  Nazareth  imparted, 

Lo  !  our  mothei^s  home  was  given. 
Weep  your  loss,  then,  broken-hearted, 

Of  this  holy  gift  of  heaven ; 
Blissful  dome  most  dear  and  holy, 

Speeding  softly  o'er  the  sea. 
Laurel  branches  bowing  lowly. 

Bid  us  bend  the  suppliant  knee. 

4.  Dome  whose  humble  walls  enfolded, 

In  the  land  of  Galilee, 
She,  the  maid  whom  Heaven  had  moulded. 

Mother  of  our  God  to  be ; 
Dome  wherein  her  infant  beauty, 

Infant  purity,  and  truth, 
Nourish'd  were  for  mystic  duty. 

Waiting  her  angelic  youth, 
Welcome,  by  the  angels  guided. 

Softly  o'er  the  summer  sea. 
Blest  the  air  so  late  divided 

By  the  house  of  Galilee. 


,-..yA?i**>*''' 


206  THB  THUtD  BfiADEfi. 

5.  Blest  the  ground  whereon  it  rested, 

And  forevei^  there  will  bloom, 
Flowers  with  light  unearthly  crested, 

Yerdore  midst  the  desert's  gloom ; 
From  these  walls  the  infant  maiden, 

Saintly  glory  romid  her  form, 
To  the  Temple,  sweetly  laden, 

Boire  her  tribute  pure  and  warm ; 
Not  of  gold,  nor  flowers  that  wither. 

She  her  votive  offering  made, 
But  a  holier  gift  bore  hither, 

And  upon  the  altar  laid. 

6.  TDwas  herself,  the  "  Star  of  Morning," 

"  LUy  of  Judea"  fair, 
Sweetly  God's  dear  shrine  adorning. 

Unreserved  she  offer'd  thece ; 
Here  returning  from  the  Temple, 

With  her  holy  spouse  once  more, 
This  sweet  flower  so  pure  and  simple, 

Lived  the  humble  life  of  yore ; 
Blissful  dome  most  dear  and  holy. 

Speeding  softly  O'er  the  sea. 
Laurel  branches  bowing  lowly. 

Bid  us  bend  the  suppliant  knee. 

7.  Gentlest  mother,  humbly  kneeling. 

Sorrowful  within  thy  walls,* 
Sound  of  heavenly  pinions  stealing. 

Softly,  as  we  listen,  falls ; 
While  we  see  thy  beauty  holy. 

Beaming  with  a  light  divine. 
And  majestic  Gabriel  slowly 

Enters  where  thy  glories  shine ;  . 


*  At  St.  Mary's  Academy,  near  South  Bend, a  chapel  tot  the  "Chil- 
dren of  Mary"  hasrbeen  erected  on  the  exact  model  of  the  house  of 
Loretto,  both  externally  and  internally.  The  designs  brought  from 
Italy  have  been  strictly  followed.  Onr  Holy  Father,  Pius  IX.,  has 
liberally  endowed  this  chapel  in  the  West  with  all  the  indulgences 
attached  to  th«  world-renowned  pilgrimage  of  Loretto. 


EXTREME  UNCTION. 

Hear  that  voice  like  purling  waters, 
Falling  sweetly  <m  the  ear, 

"Mary,  blest  of  Israel's  daughters, 
Ood  the  Lord  is  with  thee  here." 

8.  "Fall  of  grace"  'tis  he  who  led  thee, 

Sinless,  pare,  his  chosen  one  ! 
And  his  power  shall  overspread  thee, 

And  his  will  in  thee  be  done ; 
From  thy  tender  heact's  pare  fountain, 

God  shall  be  incarnate  made. 
And  the  tide  from  sin's  dark  mountain, 

At  thy  holy  feet  be  stay'd. 
"Handmaid  of  the  Lord  behold  me," 

Joyful  word  falls  on  the  ear. 
Sinful  earth  let  light  enfold  thee, 

Lo  !  the  Word  Licamate  here  t 

9.  Fau'est  dome,  the  angel's  treasure. 

Earth  can  hold  no  shrine  so  blest, 
And  our  hearts  in  untold  measure, 

Pour  their  tribute  here  to  rest ; 
By  our  loving  Mother  guarded. 

Here  we  hope  her  aid  to  gain, 
And  our  love  at  last  rewarded. 

Heaven  shall  echo  our  refrain ; 
Blissful  dome,  most  dear  and  holy. 

Speeding  softly  o'er  the  sea. 
Laurel  branches  bending  lowly. 

Bid  us  bend  the  suppliant  knee. 


207 


liil- 

ef 

om 

IM 
CM 


49.   ExTttEME  Unction. 

THE  sacrament  of  Extreme  Unction  is  administered  to  sick 
persons  when  in  danger  of  death,  and  on  that  account  it 
is  called  Extretne.    It  is  uncertain  when  this  sacrament  was 


j-'^Mmmtf 


208 


THE  THIBD  READER. 


I!  i 


Instituted,  but  the  Gonncil  of  Trent  has  declared  that  it  wa'S 
instituted  like  the  other  sacraments,  by  onr  divine  Lord  him- 
self. 

.2.  That  it  was  recognized  as  a  sacrament  by  the  Apostles 
is  evident  from  the  Epistle  of  St.  James,  where  he  says  in  the 
5th  chapter  of  his  epistle :  "  Is  any  man  sick  among  you,  let 
him  bring  in  the  priests  of  the  Church,  and  let  them  pray  over 
him,  anointing  him  with  oil,  in  the  name  of  the  Lord :  and 
the  prayer  of  faith  shall  save  the  sick  man,  and  the  Lord  shall 
raise  him  up ;  and  if  he  be  in  sins,  they  shall  be  forgiven  him." 
St.  Mark  also  relates  that  the  Apostles  anointed  with  oil  many 
that  were  sick. 

3.  The  matter  of  this  sacrament  is  oil  blessM  by  a  bishop. 
The  words  used  on  the  occasion  of  coufering  the  sacrament  are 
the  following : 

"By  this  holy  unction,  and  his  own  most  tender  mercy, 
may  the  Lord  pardon  thee  whatsoever  sins  thou  hast  com- 
mitted by  the  sight,  by  the  hearing,"  and  so  of  the  other 
senses. 

4.  No  one,  except  a  bishop  or  priest,  can  administer  this 
sacrament.  It  may  be  received  several  times,  but  not  more 
than  once  in  the  same  sickness.  Persons  ought  to  prepare 
for  it  by  a  good  confession  ;  and  where  this  is  impossible,  by 
reason  of  the  loss  of  speech,  by  a  sincere  act  of  contrition, 
and  detestation  of  their  sins. 

5.  The  parts  generally  anointed  are  the  eyes,  ears,  nose, 
lips,  hands,  and  feet.  The  effects  of  Extreme  Unction  are, 
first,  to  remit  all  venial  sins,  and  mortal  sins  forgotten ; 
second,  to  heal  the  soul  of  her  infirmity  and  weakness,  and  a 
certain  propensity  to  sin  which  often  remains  in  the  soul  after 
the  guilt  has  been  remitted ;  third,  it  give?  strength  and  grace 
to  the  soul  to  bear  with  patience  the  pains  and  infirmities 
of  the  body ;  and  lastly,  it  sometimes  restores  the  corporal 
health,  as  has  been  attested  on  many  occasions. 


"WHAT  IS  THAT,  MOTHEB?" 


209 


50.  "What  is  that,  Mother?" 

i;  WHAT  is  that,  mothei;  ?  "     "  The  lark,  my  chUd  ! 
*  •    The  moon  has  bat  just  look'd  out  and  smiled, 
When  he  starts  from  his  humble,  grassy  nest, 
And  is  up  and  away  with  the  dew  on  his  breast, 
And  a  hymn  in  his  heart,  to  yon  pure,  bright  sphere. 
To  warble  it  out  m  his  Maker's  ear. 
Ever,  my  child,  be  thy  morn's  first  lays 
Tuned,  like  the  lark's,  to  thy  Maker's  praise." 

2.  "What  is  that,  mother ?"    "The  dove,  my  son  I 
And  that  low,  sweet  yoice,  like  a  wklow's  moan. 
Is  flowing  out  from  her  gentle  breast. 
Constant  and  pure  by  that  lonely  nest, 
As  the  wave  is  pour'd  from  some  crystal  urn, 
For  her  distant  dear  one's  quick  return. 
^    Ever,  my  son,  be  thou  like  the  dove, 

In  friendship  as  faithful,  as  constant  in  love." 

S.  "What  is  that,  mother f"    "The  eagle,  boy  1 
Proudly  careering  his  course  of  joy ; 


„i/., 


210  THE  THIBD  READER. 

Firm,  on  his  own  moantain  vigor  relying, 
Breasting  the  dark  storm,  the  red  bolt  defying, 
His  wing  on  the  wind,  and  his  eye  on  the  sun. 
He  swerves  not  a  hair,  bat  bears  onward,  right  on. 
Boy,  may  the  eagle's  flight  ever  be  thine. 
Onward  and  upward,  and  true  to  the  Ime.'' 

4.  "What  is  that,  mother ?"    "The  swan,  my  love  ! 
He  is  floating  down  from  his  native  grove ; 
No  loved  one  now,  no  nestling  nigh, 
He  is  floating  down  by  himself  to  die ; 
Death  darkens  his  eye,  and  unplumes  his  wings, 
Yet  his  sweetest  song  is  the  last  he  sings. 
Live  so,  my  love,  that  when  death  shall  come, 
Swan-like  and  sweet,  it  may  waft  thee  home.** 


61.    Charity. 

TURN  not  away  your  face  from  the  poor,  and  harden  not 
your  hearts  against  them."  This,  my  child,  is  the  beau- 
tiful admonition  of  the  wise  man,  inspired  by  Go4  himself. 
Of  all  the  virtues  which  religion  commends  to  the  practice  of 
her  children,  charity  is  the  most  pleasing  to  God,  the  most 


r^M/A 


ANECDOTES  OF  HORSES. 


211 


beneficial  to  oar  fellow-creatures.  When  the  world  is  so  full 
of  poverty  and  wretchedness,  what  would  become  of  the  poor, 
if  the  rich  did  not  give  them  of  their  abundance,  and  relieve 
their  wants  and  sufferings  by  the  exercise  of  charity. 

2.  Children,  especially,  ought  to  practise  charity  as  far  as 
their  means  will  allow.  If  that  beautiful  virtue  be  not  culti- 
vated in  early  youth,  when  the  mind  is  fresh  and  the  heart 
unspoiled  by  the  world's  rough  ways,  it  will  never  bear  fruit 
in  the  heart  in  after  life. 

3.  When  little  boys  and  girls  have  pocket-money  given  them, 
what  better  can  they  do  with,  at  least,  a  portion  of  it,  than 
bestow  it  on  some  person  who  is  in  need  ?  If  part  of  the 
money  spent  in  every  family  among  the  rich,  on  cakes  and 
candies,  were  only  given  each  week  to  some  deserving  object, 
like  the  decent  poor  woman  in  the  picture,  it  would  provide 
herself  and  her  hungry  little  ones  with,  at  least,  some  loaves 
of  bread.  Let  children  think  of  that  when  they  spend  then: 
tiny  silver  pieces  on  worthless  toys  and  trashy  sugar-sticks 
that  are  of  no  earthly  good  to  them,  but  are,  on  the  contrary, 
really  injurious  to  their  health. 

4.  Would  not  the  blessing  which  that  poor  woman  seems 
giving  so  fervently  to  those  good  little  girls,  who  have  given 
her  child  bread,  be  worth  a  thousand  times  more  to  them, 
than  any  thing  they  could  buy  for  themselves  to  eat  or  to 
play  with  T 


52.    Anecdotes  of  Hobses. 

THE  method  of  taking  the  wild  horse  in  the  forests  of 
South  America,  by  throwing  a  cord  (called  a  lasso)  over 
him,  is  effected  by  men  who  are  mounted  on  tamed  horses,  that 
have  been  trained  to  the  business.  Once  made  a  prisoner, 
and  kept  for  a  couple  of  days  without  food  or  drink,  he  soon 
becomes  tame  and  is  broken-in ;  but  if  not  closely  watched,  he 
will  escape  to  his  friends  of  the  forest,  and  yet  he  will  after- 
ward.^t  allow  himself  readily  to  be  taken.  Several  instances 
have  then  known  of  persons  who  have  met  with  their  tamed 


212 


THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 


V!, 


rnnaways  in  the  herd,  which  after  a  long  ahsence  have  come 
up  to  them,  again  to  receive  their  caresses — and  have  again 
become  their  willing  slaves.  By  some  travellers  it  is  asserted, 
that  the  wild  herds  endeavor  by  stratagem  to  seduce  tame 
horses  to  join  their  community. 

2.  We,  some  years  since,  saw  the  favorite  charger  of  Bona- 
parte: he  was  a  handsome  white  barb,  scarred  with  many 
wounds,  which  the  groom  stated  him  to  have  received  in 
various  battles ;  and  he  also  said  that,  since  he  had  lost  his 
master,  he  would  not  allow  any  stranger  to  mount  him  ;  per. 
mitting  only  the  groom  himself  the  honor  of  doing  so.    He 


I 


always  g;  9ke  to  the  animal  in  French,  and  his  commands 
were  readily  obeyed. 

3.  He  would  bid  him  to  retire,  to  lie  down,  to  rise,  and  show 
how  he  fought  in  the  service  of  Bonapartt ;  and  how  he  sha^ixl 
his  provisions  when  they  were  scarce.  After  obeying  the  ^  ;•• 
vious  commands  of  his  groom,  he  would,  in  obedience  to  the 
last,  show  ho\''  he  shared  his  food,  by  going  to  a  pail  of 
water,  in  woich  there  was  a  cleanly-scraped  carrot,  and  taking 
the  end  of  it  iu  hw  mouth,  he  would  bring  it  to  the  groom, 
in  whose  mopth  h^  piao.l  the  o+her  end,  and  then  bit  it  in 
iwo,  eating  his  ovp  poi  tion  only . 

4.  Equine  attachs'ont  sometimes  exhibits  itself  in  a  light 


■ 


ANEODOTES  OF  HORSES. 


213 


le 


as  exalted  and  creditable  afl  thn*  of  the  huuinn  mind.  During 
the  Peninsular  war,  the  trumpetei  of  a  Pren.  h  cavalry  coq)s 
had  a  fine  charger  assigned  Id  him,  ot  which  i)^  became  pas- 
sionately fond,  and  which,  by  gentleness  of  disposition  and 
uniform  docility,  equally  evinced  its  affection. 

6.  The  sound  of  the  trumpeter's  voice,  'e  sight  of  his 
uniform,  or  the  twang  of  his  trumpet,  was  sufficient  to  throw 
this  animal  into  a  state  of  excitement ;  and  he  a{>[)eared  to  be 
j.kC.  1 .  and  happy  only  when  under  the  saddle  of  his  rider. 
JTudeed  he  was  unruly  and  useless  to  everybody  else  ;  for  one*-, 
on  being  removed  to  another  part  of  the  forces,  and  ci  isigiied 
to  a  young  officer,  he  resolutely  refused  to  perform  his  evolu- 
tions, bolted  straight  to  the  trumpeter's  station,  and  there 
took  his  stand,  jostling  alongside  his  former  master. 

^  This  animal,  on  being  restored  to  the  trumpeter,  can  led 
him,  daring  several  of  the  Peninsular  campaigns,  through  many 
difficulties  and  hair-breadth  escapes.  At  last  the  coips  t'^ 
which  he  belonged  was  worsted,  and  in  the  confusion  of  retreai " 
the  trumpeter  was  mortally  wounded.  Dropping  from  his  horse, 
his  body  was  found,  many  days  after  the  engagement,  stretched 
on  the  sward,  with  the  faithful  charger  standing  beside  it. 

7.  During  the  long  interval,  it  seems  that  he  had  never  quit- 
ted the  trumpeter's  side,  but  had  stood  sentinel  over  his  corpse, 
scaring  away  the  birds  of  prey,  and  remaining  totally  heedless 
of  his  own  privations.  When  found,  he  was  in  a  sadly-reduced 
condition,  partly  from  loss  of  blood  through  wounds,  but  chiefly 
from  want  of  food,  of  which,  in  the  excess  of  his  grief,  he  could 
not  be  prevailed  on  to  partake. 

8.  Though  Providence  seems  to  have  implanted  in  the  horse 
a  benovolent  disposition,  with  at  the  same  time  a  certain  awe 
of  the  human  race,  yet  there  are  instances  on  record  of  his 
recollecting  injuries,  and  fearfully  revenging  them.  A  person 
near  Boston  (Mass.),  was  in  the  habit,  whenever  he  wished  to 
catch  his  fejorse  in  the  field,  of  taking  a  quantity  of  corn  in  a 
measure,  by  way  of  bait. 

9.  On  calling  to  him,  the  horse  would  come  up  and  eat  the 
com,  wtule*  the  bridle  wm  put  over  his  head.  But  the  owner 
having  deceived  the  animal  several  times,  by  calling  him  when 


■ihimmmf^ 


214 


THE  THIRD  HEADER. 


he  hod  no  corn  in  the  measure,  the  horse  at  length  began  to 
suspect  the  design ;  and  coming  up  one  day  as  usual,  on  being 
called,  looked  into  the  measure,  and  seeing  it  empty,  turned 
round,  reared  on  his  hind  legs,  and  killed  his  master  on  the  spot. 

10.  The  docility  of  the  horse  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
of  his  natural  gifts.  Furnished  with  acute  senses,  and  excel- 
lent memory,  Ingh  intelligence,  and  gentle  disposition,  he  soon 
\eatm  to  know  and  obey  his  master's  will,  and  to  perform 
certain  actions  with  surprising  accuracy  and  precision.  The 
range  of  his  performances,  however,  is  limited  by  his  physical 
structure :  he  has  not  a  hand  to  grasp,  a  proboscis  to  Uft  the 
minutest  object,  nor  the  advantages  of  a  light  and  agile  frame ; 
if  he  had,  the  monkey,  the  dog,  and  the  elephant,  would  in  this 
respect  be  left  far  behind  him. 

11.  It  has  been  before  remarked,  that  the  horse  is  inferior 
to  none  of  the  brute  creation  in  sagacity  and  general  intelli- 
gence. In  a  state  of  nature,  he  is  cautious  and  watchful ;  and 
the  manner  in  which  the  wild  herds  conduct  their  marches, 
station  their  scouts  and  leaders,  shows  how  fully  they  compre- 
hend the  necessity  of  obedience  and  order.  All  their  move- 
ments, indeed,  seem  to  be  the  result  of  reason,  aided  by  a 
power  of  expressing  their  ideas  very  far  superior  to  that  of 
most  other  animals. 

12.  The  neighings  by  which  they  express  terror,  alarm,  or 
recognition,  the  discovety  of  water  and  pasture,  &c.,  are  all 
essentially  different,  and  yet  are  instantly  comprehended  by 
every  member  of  the  herd ;  nay,  the  various  movements  of  the. 
body,  the  pawing  of  the  ground,  the  motions  of  the  ears,  and 
the  expressions  of  the  countenance,  seem  to  be  fully  understood 
by  each  other. 

13.  In  passing  swampy  ground,  they  test  it  with  the  fore- 
foot, before  trusting  to  it  the  full  weight  of  their  bodies ;  they 
will  strike  asunder  the  melon-cactus  to  obtain  its  succulent 
juice,  with  an  address  perfectly  wonderful ;  and  will  scoop  out 
a  hollow  in  the  moist  sand,  in  the  expectation  of  its  filling 
with  water.  All  this  they  do  in  their  wild  state ;  and  domes- 
tication, it  seems,  instead  of  lessening,  tends  ratherto  strengthen 
and  develop  their  intelligence. 


i 


all 
by 

the. 

aud 
tood 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM. 


215 


14.  The  Arabians  try  the  speed  of  their  horses,  by  hunting 
the  ostrich — ^the  bird  endeavors  to  reach  the  mountains,  run- 
ning along  the  sands  with  great  rapidity,  assisted  in  its  efforts 
by  flapping  its  wings.  A  horse,  however,  possessing  the  high- 
est quality  of  speed,  is  enabled  to  come  up  with  it ;  when  the 
poor  creature  hides  its  head  in  a  bush,  or  wherever  it  can, 
and  is  quietly  taken.  By  this  criterion  the  hunter  rates  his 
horse ;  and  as  the  animal  evinces  his  speed  and  perseverance 
in  the  chase,  his  master  estimates  his  value.  The  Arabs 
accustom  their  horses  to  .fatigue,  and  give  them  milk  which 
enables  them  to  bear  it. 


53.   The  Battle  of  Blenheim. 

1.  TT  was  a  summer  evening, 

J-    Old  Kasper's  work  was  done : 
And  he  before  his  cottage;door 

Was  sitting  m  the  sun. 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

2.  She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 

Roll  something  large  and  round, 
Which  he  beside  the  rivulet, 

In  playing  there,  had  found , 
He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found. 
That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round. 

3.  Old  Kasper  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And  with  a  natural  sigh, 
*"Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
"Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

4.  "  I  6nd  them  in  the  garden,  for 

There's  many  here  about, 


^rmimm- 


V  < 


N 


216  THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 

And  often  when  I  go  to  ploagh, 

The  ploughshare  tarns  them  oat ; 
For  many  thousand  men/'  said  he, 
"Were  slain  in  the  great  victory." 

6.  "Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about," 
Young  Peterkin  he  cries, 
'And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes ; 
"  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war. 
And  what  they  kill'd  each  other  for." 

6.  "  It  was  the  English,"  Kasper  cried, 
"That  put  the  French  to  rout ; 
But  what  they  kilPd  each  other  for, 

I  could  not  well  make  out. 
But  everybody  said,"  quoth  he, 
"That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

*i.  "  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 
Yon  little  stream  hard  by, 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly  ; 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled. 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

8.  "With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 
Was  wasted  far  and  wide, 

And  many  a  childing  mother  then, 
And  new-born  infant,  died  ;— 

But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 

At  every  famous  victory. 

d.  "They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight. 

After  the  field  was  won, 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun ; — 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 


THE  ANNUNCIATION. 

10.  "  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro'  won, 

And  our  good  Prince  Eugene." 
"Why,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing  I" 

Said  little  Wilhelmine. 
"Nay — nay — ^my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 
"  It  was  a  famous  victory. 

11.  "And  everybody  praised  the  Duke 

Who  such  a  fight  did  win." 
"But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last?" 

Quoth  little  Peterkin. 
"Why  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he, 
"But  'twas  a  famous  victory." 


217 


54.   The  Annunciation. 

WHEN  the  plenitude  of  tune  was  come  that  God  had  fixed 
from  eternity  to  shower  down  his  blessings  upon  man- 
kind, by  giving  them  a  Redeemer,  the  angel  Gabriel  was  first 
deputed  to  Zachary,  a  holy  priest,  whose  wife  was  Elizabeth, 
one  of  the  daughters  of  Aaron.  The  heavenly  messenger 
came  to  tell  him  that  he  should  have  a  son,  whose  name 
should  be  John,  and  whose  burth  should  be  a  subject  of  joy 
to  many  in  Israel 

2.  Six  months  after.  Almighty  God  deputed  the  same  angel 
to  a  virgin  whose  nam.e'was  Mary,  residing  in  Nazareth,  a 
city  of  Galilee.  Mary  had  been  espoused  to  a  holy  man 
called  Joseph,  a  descendant  of  the  house  of  David.  The 
divine  Providence  had  in  a  special  manner  presided  over 
those  nuptials,  which  provided  the  Yirgin  with  a  guardian 
and  protector  of  her  purity.  For  with  the  same  sentiments 
of  virtue,  and  in  the  same  dispositions  of  mind,  says  St.  Aus- 
tin, both  Mary  and  Joseph  entered  into  a  mutual  engagement 
of  joining  the  marriage  state  with  a  state  of  virginity,  of  which 
the  world  had  not  seen  an  example. 

3.  Almighty  God  honored  this  alliance  with  an  issue  which 
was  to  set  open  the  gates  of  heaven,  which  for  ages  had  been 

10 


218 


THE  THIED  BEADEB. 


shat  against  us  by  the  crime  of  cmr  first  parents.  Mary  was 
the  woman  destined  by  Almighty  God  to  crush  the  serpent's 
head,  as  it  is  written  in  the  book  of  Genesis  (chap,  iii,),  and 
it  was  to  obtain  her  consent  that  God  then  sent  his  angel  to 
Nazareth.  The  angel  found  her  alone,  as  St,  Ambrose  ob- 
serves, and  respectfully  said  unto  her — "  Hail  I  full  of  grace, 
the  Lord  is  with  thee ;  blessed  art  thou  among  women  V 


■ 


4.  The  humble  virgin  was  disturbed  at  the  angePs  saluta- 
tion, and  trembled  with  fear,  lest,  as  Eve  had  been  deceived 
by  the  serpent,  she  also  might  be  misled  by  a  similar  delusion. 
She  considered  the  sense  and  import  of  his  words,  and  thereby 
gives  us  an  admirable  example  of  discretion,  which  teaches  us 
not  to  be  too  hasty  in  consenting  to  a  proposal  before  we 
understand  the  nature  of  its  obligation. 

5.  The  angel  saw  the  trouble  of  her  mind,  and  to  appease 
it,  said — "Fear  not,  Mary;  for  you  have  found  favor  with 
the  Lord."  He  then  opened  the  subject  of  his  commission, 
and  told  her  that  she  should  conceive  and  bring  forth  a  son, 
and  call  his  name  Jesus  ;  that  he  should  be  great,  even  the 
Son  of  the  Most  High ;  that  he  should  sit  upon  the  throne 


THE  ANNUNCIATION. 


219 


of  David ;  that  he  should  reign  in  the  house  of  Jacob,  and 
that  of  his  kingdom  there  should  be  no  end. 

6.  The  Virgin  listened  to  the  angel  with  great  attention ; 
she  heard  the  wonderful  things  he  promised,  but  desired  to 
know  how  it  could  possibly  be  done,  because  she  was  a  virgin. 
It  was  not  an  'die  curiosity,  but  a  mark  of  her  submission  to 
t^e  divine  will ;  nor  was  it  a  want  of  faith,  but  an  intunation 
of  the  chaste  purpose  of  her  mind,  which  induced  her  to  ask 
the  angel  that  question. 

1.  The  angel,  in  reply,  assured  her  that  no  concurrence  of 
man  was  requisite  for  what  the  sole  power  of  the  Most  High,' 
with  her  consent,  would  operate  within  her;  that  by  the  in- 
efTable  virtue  of  the  Holy  Ghost  she  should  conceive,  bear  a 
son,  and  still  remain  a  pure  virgin.  It  is  what  the  {«ophet 
Isaiah  (chap,  vii.)  had  expressly  foretold.  But  to  convince 
the  Virgin  that  nothing  was  impossible  to  God,  the  angel, 
moreover,  told  her  what  had  happened  to  her  cousin  Eliza- 
beth in  an  advanced  age,  who,  notwithstanding  the  many 
years  she  had  been  reputed  barren,  had  miraculously  con- 
ceived, and  was  six  months  gone  with  child. 

8.  The  Virgm  having  thus  received  the  information  she 
desired,  and  being  told  the  manner  in  which  the  mystery  was 
to  be  wrought  within  her,  gave  her  consent.  In  terms  the 
most  humble  and  submissive,  terms  that  expre^r^ed  the  holy 
disposition  of  her  heart,  she  said — "  Behold  the  handmaid  (k 
the  Lord :  let  it  be  done  to  me  according  to  thy  word." 

9.  The  angel  having  thus  happily  completed  his  commis- 
sion returned  to  heaven,  and  the  wonderful  mystery  of  the 
Incarnation  took  place  that  instant.  For  Mary  had  no 
sooner  given  her  consent,  than  the  Son  of  God,  the  second 
Person  of  the  most  adorable  Trinity,  by  an  invisible  and  mys- 
terious operation  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  took  flesh  and  became 
man  in  her  womb,  without  the  least  detriment  to  her  virginal 
integrity.  That  was  the  happy  moment  in  which  the  work  of 
man's  redemption  was  begun ;  that  was  the  moment  when  an 
incarnate  God  unlocked  the  source  of  those  plentiful  graces 
which  were  to  flow  for  the  salvation  of  mankind,  to  wash  our 
souls  from  sin,  and  to  sanctify  them  for  eternal  life. 


220 


THE  THIRD  KEADBB. 


55.   St.  Feligitas  and  heb  Sons. 


m 


i 

|!':i 


THERE  lived  at  Rome,  in  the  reign  of  Marcns  Aurelios,  a 
noble  lady  called  Felicitas.  She  was  a  widow,  and  had 
seven  sons.  On  her  husband's  death,  she  took  a  vow  of  chas- 
tity, and  gave  herself  up  to  a  life  of  prayer,  fasting,  and  good 
works.  One  of  her  principal  occupations  was  the  education 
of  her  seven  sons,  whom  she  loved  very  dearly.  Felicitas' 
love  for  her  sons  was  not  merely  such  as  all  women  feel  for 
their  children. 

2.  She  remembered  that  they  were  not  her  children  only, 
but  that  they  were  the  children  of  God,  who  had  lent  them  to 
her,  and  who  would  one  day  ask  her  account  of  them.  She 
did  not  wish  to  see  them  great  in  this  world,  but  wished  to 
lay  up  in  store  for  them  the  inestimable  riches  of  eternal  glory 
in  the  next. 

3.  She  therefore  trained  them  from  their  infancy  in  all  holy 
and  pious  practices  suited  to  their  age,  and  she  offered  them 
up  to  Jesus  to  live  and  die  in  his  service,  in  whatever  way  it 
might  be  his  will  to  make  use  of  them.  Our  Lord  accepted 
the  ofifering,  and  gave  her  and  them  the  high  honor  of  suffer- 
ing martyrdom  for  his  sake. 

4.  Felicitas  was  so  good  and  holy  that  the  women  of  her 
own  rank  thought  very  highly  of  whatever  she  said  or  did, 
and  many  of  them  who  were  pagans  were  converted  by  her 
example  and  influence.  This  displeased  the  heathen  priests, 
and  they  complained  to  the  emperor,  and  persuaded  him  that 
the  gods  were  very  angry,  and  would  not  be  pacified  till  Feli- 
citas and  her  children  would  offer  sacrifice  to  them. 

5.  She  and  her  sons  were  accordingly  made  prisoners,  and 
taken  before  Fublius,  the  prefect  of  the  city.  Publius  was 
unwilling  to  use  violence  with  a  lady  of  such  high  rank  and 
character  as  Felicitas ;  so  he  first  took  her  aside,  and  tried 
gently  to  oersuade  her  to  sacrifice  to  the  gods.  But  Felicitas 
answered — "Do  not  hope,  O  Publius  1  to  win  me  with  fair 
words,  or  to  terrify  me  with  threats ;  for  I  have  within  me 
the  spirit  of  God,  who  will  not  let  me  be  overcome  by  Satan ; 


ST.  FELIOITAS' AND  HEB  SONS. 


221 


and  therefore  I  am  sore  I  shall  be  too  hard  for  you,  who  are 
the  servant  of  Satan." 

6.  Pablio^  seeing  that  she  had  no  fear  for  herself,  thought 
he  would  move  her  by  speaking  to  her  of  her  children,  and  he 
therefore  said  to  her — "  Unhappy  woman  1  is  it  possible  that 
you  are  so  tired  of  life  that  you  will  not  even  let  your  chil- 
dren live,  but  will  force  me  to  destroy  them  by  bitter  and 
cruel  torments?" 

1.  "My  children,"  replied  Felicitas,  "would  die  an  ever-* 
lasting  death  if  they  were  to  sacrifice  to  your  gods.  But 
now,  since  they  acknowledge  and  worship  Jesus  Christ,  they 
will  live  with  him  forever."  After  making  this  first  attempt, 
Publius  dismissed  her,  thinking  it  would  be  better  to  let  her 
consider  coolly  and  quietly  what  he  had  said,  and  what  tor- 
tures she  was  bringing  on  herself  and  her  children,  hoping  that 
when  she  did  so,  she  would  come  to  a  better  mind. 
'  8.  The  next  day,  as  he  was  sitting  in  the  temple  of  Mars, 
he  sent  for  Felicitas  and  her  sons.  When  they  came  before 
him,  he  turned  to  her,  and  appealing  to  her  feelings  as  a 
mother,  he  said — ^"O  Felicitas  1  take  pity  on  your  children, 
who  are  now  in  the  prime  of  youth,  and  who  are  of  such  noble 
birth,  and  are  so  good  and  clever  that  they  may  look  to  the 
highest  honors  of  the  state." 

9.  But  Felicitas  answered — "  Your  pity  is  cruel,  and  your 
advice  is  impious  and  deceitful."  Then,  turning  to  her  chil- 
dren, she  said — "My  sons,  look  up  to  heaven,  where  Christ 
expects  you  with  all  his  saints  I  Fight  manfully  for  the  good 
of  your  souls,  and  show  yourselves  faithful  and  constant  in 
the  love  of  the  true  God,  Christ  Jesus."  These  words  exas- 
perated Publius,  who  looked  upon  it  as  an  intolerable  affront 
that  this  woman  should  defy  him  to  his  very  face,  and  so  he 
commanded  that  she  should  be  cruelly  beaten  about  the  face 
and*  head. 

10.  Then  he  turned  to  her  sons,  and  beginning  with  Janna- 
rius,  the  eldest,  he  tried  to  induce  him,  by  promises  and  threats, 
to  adore  the  gods.  But  the  boy  was  not  unworthy  of  his 
brave  and  saintly  mother,  and  he  answered — "  You  wish  to 
persuade  me  to  do  a  foolish  thing,  contraiy  to  all  reason ;  but 


222 


THE  THiBD  READER. 


I  trust  in  my  Lord  Jesus  Christ  that  he  will  preserve  me  from 
so  great  an  impiety."  On  hearing  these  words,  Publius  or- 
dered that  he  should  be  stripped  and  very  severely  scourged ; 
after  which  he  was  thrown  into  prison. 

11.  All  the  other  brothers  were  brought  np  in  turn,  and 
every  art  was  used  to  conquer  them,  and  induce  them  to  obey 
the  emperor.  But  it  was  all  to  no  purpose;  for  they  were 
supported  and  guided  by  the  Holy  Spirit,  and  they  all  made 
Publius  the  same  answer,  though  in  different  words,  as  Janu- 
arius  had  done.  They  were  therefore  scourged  so  severely 
that  their  whole  bodies  were  a  mass  of  wounds,  and  in  this 
state  they  were  thrown  into  prison,  till  the  emperor's  fui'ther 
pleasure  should  be  known. 

12.  During  all  the  time  that  her  sons  were  being  thus  tor- 
tured, Felicitas  was  forced  to  stand  by  and  witness  their  suf- 
ferings. This  holy  mother  remained  firm  and  unmoved,  while 
she  looked  on  the  torments  of  her  children.  She  did  not  shed 
a  tear  as  the  noise  of  the  blows  resounded  in  her  ears ;  she 
did  not  shrink  at  the  sig;ht  of  their  streaming  blood,  their 
quivering  flesh,  and  their  involuntary  writhings  of  agony. 

13  The  only  words  she  spoke  were  to  exhort  them  to  stand 
firm,  and  to  inflame  them  with  love  for  Jesus.  It  seems 
strange  how  a  mother  could  act  in  this  way.  It  was  not  be- 
cause she  did  not  love  her  children,  or  because  she  had  not 
the  natural  feelings  of  a  mother ;  for,  on  the  contrary,  every 
torture  they  endured  pierced  her  to  her  very  heart,  and  gave 
her  even  more  pain  than  it  did  them.  But  it  was  because  the 
supernatural  character  of  her  love  for  them  gave  her  strength 
to  conquer  the  weakness  of  a  mother's  natural  feelings. 

14.  Looking  on  them  with  the  eyes  of  faith,  she  saw  in 
their  temporal  death  only  their  gain  of  eternal  lifB ;  in  their 
present  wounds,  the  jeweb  of  their  future  crown ;  and  in  the 
severity  of  their  torments,  the  greater  blessedness  prepared 
for  them  in  glory.  She  would  have  feared  to  leave  them 
behind  her  on  earth,  lest  any  one  of  them  should  fall  short 
of  heaven,  and  therefore  she  rejoiced  as  much  in  the  death  of 
her  sons  as  other  mothers  weep  when  theirs  are  taken  from 
theoi. 


ST.  FELTCITAS  AND  HER  SONS. 


223 


saw  in 

their 

m  the 

jpared 

them 

short 

ith  of 

,  from 


15.  Marcus  Aurelius  was  so  hardened  that  he  could  -lOt 
feel  the  least  compassion  for  Felicitas,  and  he  ordered  that  all 
her  sons  should  be  put  to  death  in  various  ways  before  her 
eyes.  The  three  eldest  underwent  a  very  horrible  and  linger- 
ing death,  being  slowly  beaten  till  they  expired.  Januarius 
was  first  torn  with  whips,  and  then  with  thick  cords,  loaded 
with  lead,  till  he  died ;  and  Felix  and  Philip  were  bruised  and 
broken  with  cudgels  till,  every  bone  being  fractured,  and  their 
bodies  being  reduced  to  a  shapeless  mass,  they  at  last  expired. 

16.  A  milde.  fate  awaited  the  others;  for  Silvanus  was 
thrown  from  a  rock,  while  Alexander,  Vitalis,  and  Martialis 
were  beheaded.  To  have  put  their  bereaved  mother  to  death 
would  have  been  a  deed  of  mercy ;  but  the  persecutors  of  the 
Christians  did  not  know  what  mercy  was. 

17.  The  -^TTiperor  ordered  her  to  be  thrown  into  a  dark  and 
cold  dungeoi ,  where  she  was  kept  four  months,  in  hopes  that 
her  patience  being  worn  out,  and  her  spirit  broken  by  her  sor- 
row, she  would  at  last  be  willing  to  do  any  thing  to  escape 
from  solitude  and  torture.  But  there  was  now  less  chance 
than  ever  of  St.  Felicitas  giving  up  her  religion,  for  the  loss 
of  her  children  had  only  strengthened  her  to  bear  whatever 
might  be  inflicted  on  her. 

18.  She  had  now  no  temptation  to  save  her  life  by  denying 
Jesus ;  for  this  world  was  become  a  blank  to  her,  and  nothing 
in  it^ould  give  her  the  least  happiness.  She  would  have  wept 
had  not  her  sons  died  for  Christ ;  but  now  that  she  had  as 
many  bright  and  glorious  saints  in  heaven  as  she  had  once 
had  children  on  earth,  her  only  hope  and  longing  was  to  be 
with  them  in  the  presence  of  Him  to  whom  she  had  ofiFered 
them,  and  for  the  love  of  whom  they  had  laid  down  their  lives. 

19.  At  last,  when  it  was  plain  that  she  would  never  give 
her  consent  to  adore  the  heathen  gods,  the  emperor  ordered 
her  to  be  beheaded.  Thus  did  this  blessed  saint  suffer  eight 
martrydoms — being  martyred  in  each  of  her  children,  and 
ceasing  to  suffer  only  when  she  ceased  to  breathe.  A  father 
of  the  Church,  in  speaking  of  her,  says — "  She  is  not  a  true 
mother  who  knows  not  how  to  love  her  children  as  St.  Felici- 
tas loved  hers." 


/ 


224 


THE  THIBP  SEADEB. 


56.   Immobtaltit. 


I  LINGERED  several  weeks  aroand  the  grave  of  my  mother, 
and  in  the  neighborhood  where  she  had  lived.  It  was  the 
place  where  I  had  passed  my  own  childhood  and  yoath.  It 
was  the  scene  of  those  early  associations  which  become  the 
dearer  to  us  as  we  leave  them  the  farther  behind.  I  stood 
where  I  had  sported  in  the  freedom  of  early  childhood ;  but  I 
stood  alone,  for  no  one  was  there  with  whom  I  could  speak  of 
its  frolics.  One  feels  singularly  desolate  when  he  sees  only 
strange  faces,  and  hears  only  strange  voices  in  what  was  the 
home  of  his  early  life. 

2.  I  returned  to  the  village  where  I  resided  when  I  first 
introduced  myself  to  my  readers.  But  what  was  that  spot  to 
me  now  ?  Nature  had  done  much  for  it,  but  nature  herself  is 
very  much  what  we  make  her.  There  must  be  beauty  in  our 
souls,  or  we  shall  see  no  loveliness  in  her  face ;  and  beauty 
had  died  out  of  my  soul.  She  who  might  have  lecalled  it  to 
life,  and  thrown  its  hues  over  all  the  world,  wa&— but  of  that 
I  will  not  speak. 

3.  It  was  now  that  I  really  needed  the  hope  of  immortality. 
The  world  was  to  me  one  vast  desert,  and  life  was  without 
end  or  aim.  The  hope  of  immortality  1  "We  want  it  when 
earth  has  lost  its  gloss  of  novelty;  when  our  hopes  have 
been  blasted,  our  affections  withered,  and  the  shortness  of  life 
and  the  vanity  of  all  human  pursuits,  have  come  home  to 
us,  and  made  us  exclaim,  "Vanity  of  vanities,  all  is  vanity:" 
we  want  then  the  hope  of  immortality  to  give  to  life  an  end, 
an  aim. 

4.  We  all  of  us  at  times  feel  this  want.  The  infidel  feels 
it  in  early  life.  He  learns  all  too  soon,  what  to  him  is  a 
withering  fact,  that  man  does  not  complete  Us  destiny  on 
earth.  Man  never  completes  any  thing  here.  What  then 
shall  he  do  if  there  be  no  hereafter  ?  With  what  courage  can 
I  betake  myself  to  my  task  ?  I  may  begin ;  but  the  grave 
lies  between  me  and  the  completion.  Death  will  come  to  in* 
terrupt  my  work,  and  compel  me  to  leave  it  unfinished. 


THE  WmOW  OF  NAIN. 


225 


5.  This  is  more  terrible  to  me  than  the  thought  of  ceasing 
to  be.  I  could  almost  (at  least  I  think  I  could)  consent  to 
be  no  more,  after  I  had  finished  my  work,  achieved  my  des- 
tiny ;  but  to  die  before  my  work  is  completed,  while  that 
destiny  is  but  begun, — this  is  the  death  which  comes  to  me 
indeed  as  a  "  King  of  Terrors." 

6.  The  hope  of  another  life  to  be  the  completion  of  this, 
steps  in  to  save  us  from  this  death,  to  give  us  the  courage  and 
the  hope  to  begin.  The  rough  sketch  shall  hereafter  become 
the  finished  picture ;  the  artist  shall  give  it  the  last  touch  at 
his  easel ;  the  science  we  had  just  begun,  shall  be  completed, 
and  the  incipient  destiny  shall  be  achieved.  Fear  not  then  to 
bej^n;  thou  hast  eternity  before  thee  in  which  to  end. 


1:1  feels 

is  a 

Iny  on 

then 

;e  can 

I  grave 

toin- 


57.   The  Widow  op  Nain. 

9  rpWAS  now  high  noon. 

-i-   The  dull,  low  murmur  of  a  funeral 
Went  through  the  city— the  sad  sound  of  feet 
TJnmix'd  with  voices — and  the  sentinel 
Shook  off  his  slumber,  and  gazed  earnestly 
Up  the  wide  streets  along  whose  paved  way 
The  silent  throng  crept  slowly.    They  came  on, 
Bearing  a  body  heavUy  on  its  bier, 
And  by  the  crowd  that  in  the  burning  sun, 
Walk'd  with  forgetful  sadness,  'twas  of  one 
Mourn'd  with  uncommon  sorrow.    The  broad  gate 
Swung  on  its  hinges,  and  the  Roman  bent 
His  spear-point  downwards  as  the  bearers  pass'd, 
Bending  beneath  their  burden.    There  was  one — 
Only  one  mourner.    Close  behind  the  bier, 
Crumpling  the  pair  up  in  her  withered  hands, 
FoUow'd  an  aged  woman.    Her  short  steps 
Falter'd  with  weakness,  and  a  broken  moan 
Fell  from  her  lips,  thicken'd  convulsively, 

109 


)»I«B    I 


"*a»!fiSir'-5s^ 


226 


THE  THIBD  READER. 


t 


As  her  heart  bled  afresh.    The  pitying  crowd 
Follow'd  apart,  but  no  one  ppoke  to  her. 
She  had  no  kinsmen.     She  had  lived  alone — 


' 


li        r 


!^^V^5S^i^VXVV..v.  ^.VVVW  ' 


'  "/ 


A  widow  with  one  son.    He  was  her  all — 

The  only  tie  she  had  in  the  wide  world — 

And  he  was  dead.    They  could  not  comfort  her. 

^F  *|»  n*  •(*  ^ 

Forth  from  the  city-gate  the  pitying  crowd 
Follow'd  the  stricken  mourner.    They  came  near 
The  place  of  burial,  and,  with  straining  hands, 


i 


MONUMENT  TO  A  MOTHER  S  GRAVE. 

Closer  upon  her  breast  she  clasp'd  the  pall, 
And  with  a  gasping  sob,  quick  as  a  ehild\s, 
And  au  inquiring  wildncss  (lashing  through 
The  thin  gray  lashes  of  her  fever'd  eyes, 
She  came  where  Jesus  stood  beside  the  way. 
He  look'd  upon  her,  and  his  heart  was  moved. 
"  Weep  not ! "  he  said  ;  and  as  they  stay'd  the  bier, 
And  at  his  bidding  laid  it  at  his  feet. 
He  gently  drew  the  pall  from  out  her  grasp, 
And  laid  it  back  in  silence  from  the  de^d. 
With  troubled  wonder  the  mute  throng  drew  near,  ' 
And  gazed  on  his  calm  looks.     A  minute's  space 
He  stood  and  pray'd.    Then,  taking  the  cold  hand, 
He  said  "  Arise  I "    And  instantly  the  breast 
Heaved  in  its  cerements,  and  a  sudden  flush 
Ran  through  the  lines  of  the  divided  lips, 
And  with  a  murmur  of  his  mother's  name. 
He  trembled  and  sat  upright  in  his  shroud. 
4.  lid,  while  the  mourner  hung  upon  his  neck, 
Jesus  went  calmly  on  his  way  to  Nain. 


227 


ler. 


sar 


58.    MoNUMrNT  TO  A  Mother's  Grave. 

I  FOLLOWED  into  a  burying-ground  in  the  suburbs  of 
Philadelphia,  a  small  train  of  persons,  not  more  1>han  a 
dozen,  who  had  come  to  bury  one  of  their  acquaintance.  The 
clergyman  in  attendance,  was  leading  a  little  boy  by  the  hand, 
who  seemed  to  be  the  only  relative  of  the  deceased. 

2.  I  gathered  with  them  around  the  grave  ;  and  when  the 
plain  coffin  was  lowered  down,  the  child  burst  forth  in  uncon- 
trollable grief.  The  little  boy  had  no  one  left  to  whom  he 
could  look  for  affection,  or  who  could  address  hmi  in  tones  of 
parental  kindness ;  the  last  of  his  kinsfolk  was  in  the  grave, 
and  he  was  alone. 

3.  When  the  clamorous  grief  of  the  child  had  a  little  sub- 
sided, the  clergyman  addressed  us  with  the  customary  exhor- 


~*%^>^*»i.^a«Mij; 


^:^^i^^i^^^S^^^^^I^^;e^i«^/ ' 


228 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB* 


\'. 


tation  to  accept  the  warning  and  be  prepared,  and  turning 
to  the  child,  he  added,  "She  is  not  to  remain  in  the  grave 
forever ;  as  sure  as  the  grass,  which  is  now  chilled  with  the 
frost  of  the  season,  shall  sprmg  to  greenness  and  life  in  a  few 
months,  so  true  shall  your  mother  rise  from  that  grave  to 
another  life :  a  life  of  happiness,  I  hope." 

4.  The  attendants  then  shovelled  in  the  earth  upon  the  cofiBn, 
and  some  one  took  little  William,  the  child,  by  the  hand,  and 
led  him  forth  from  the  lonely  tenement  of  his  mother. 

5.  Late  in  the  ensuing  spring,  I  was  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  same  burying-ground,  and  seeing  the  gate  open,  I  walked 
among  the  graves  for  some  time,  reading  the  names  of  the 
dead ;  when,  recollecting  that  I  was  near  the  grave  of  the 
poor  widow,  buried  the  previous  autumn,  I  turned  to  see  what 
had  been  done  to  preserve  the  memory  of  one  so  utterly  des- 
titute of  earthly  friends. 

6.  To  my  surprise,  I  found  the  most  desirable  of  mementoes 
for  a  mother's  sepulchre :  little  William  was  sittmg  near  the 
head  of  the  now  sunken  grave,  looking  intently  at  some  green 
shoots  that  had  come  forth  with  the  warmth  of  spring  from 
the  soil  that  had  covered  his  mother's  coffin. 

t.  William  started  at  my  approach,  and  would  have  lefb 
the  place.  It  was  long  before  I  could  induce  him  to  tarry ; 
and  indeed,  I  could  not  win  his  confidence  until  I  told  him 
that  I  was  present  when  they  buried  his  mother,  and  had 
marked  his  tears  at  the  time. 

8.  "Then  you  heard  the  priest  say  my  mother  would  come 
out  of  this  grave  I"  said  William. 

"I  did." 

"It  is  true :  is  it  not  ?"  asked  he,  in  a  tone  of  confidence. 
"  I  most  firmly  believe  it,"  said  I. 

"Believe  it  1"  said  the  child,  "believe  it  1  I  thought  yon 
knew  :t.    I  know  it." 

"  How  do  you  know  it,  my  dear  ?  " 

9.  "The  priest  said,  that  as  true  as  the  grass  grew  up,  and 
the  flowers  bloomed  in  spring,  so  true  would  mother  rise.  I 
came  a  few  days  afterward  and  planted  flower-seeds  on  the 
grave.    The  grass  came  green  in  the  burying-ground  long  ago ; 


. 


1 


MONUMENT  TO  A  MOTHEB's  GRAVE. 


229 


and  I  watched  every  day  for  the  flowers,  and  t-v^ay  they  came 
np  too.  See  them  breaking  through  the  gromid  !  By-and-by 
mother  will  come  again," 

10.  A  smile  of  exulting  hope  played  upon  the  features  of 
the  boy,  and  I  felt  pained  at  disturbing  the  faith  and  confi- 
dence with  which  he  was  animated.  "  But,  my  little  child," 
said  I,  "it  is  not  here  that  your  mother  will  rise." 

"Yes,  here,"  said  he  with  emphasis:  "here  they  placed 
her,  and  here  I  have  come  ever  since  the  first  blade  of  grass 
was  seen  this  year." 

11.  I  looked  around,  and  saw  the  tiny  foot  of  the  child  had 
trod  out  the  herbage  at  the  graveside :  so  constant  had  been 
his  attendance.  What  a  faithful  watch-keeper  I  what  mother 
would  desire  a  richer  monument  than  the  form  of  her  son 
bendmg  in  tearful  but  hoping  trust  over  her  grave  ? 

12.  "But,  William,"  said  I,  "it  is  in  another  world  that 
she  will  rise ;"  and  I  attempted  to  explain  to  him  the  nature 
of  that  promise  which  he  had  mistaken.  The  child  was  con- 
fused, and  he  appeared  neither  pleased  nor  satisfied. 

"If  mother  is  not  coming  back  to  me,  if  she  is  not  to  come 
up  here,  what  shall  I  do  ?    I  cannot  stay  without  her." 

"  You  shall  go  to  her,"  said  I,  adopting  the  language  of 
the  Scripture,  "you  shall  go  to  her,  but  she  shall  not  come 
again  to  you." 

13.  "Let  me  go  then,"  said  William:  "let  me  go  that  I 
may  rise  with  mother." 

"William,"  said  I,  pointing  down  to  the  plants  just  break- 
ing through  the  ground,  "the  seed  which  was  sown  there, 
would  not  have  come  np,  if.  it  had  not  been  ripe :  so  you  must 
wait  till  your  appointed  time ;  until  your  end  cometh." 

"Then  I  shall  see  her  1" 

"  I  surely  hope  so." 

"I  will  wait,  then,"  said  the  child;  "but  I  thought  I 
should  see  her  soon :  I  thought  I  should  meet  her  here." 

14.  In  a  month  William  ceased  to  wait.  He  died,  and 
they  opened  his  mother's  grave,  and  placed  his  little  coffin  on 
hers.  It  was  the  only  wish  the  child  expressed  when  dying. 
Better  teachers  than  I  had  instructed  him  in  the  way  to  meet 


r 


iiiig 


MBMta 


1 


230 


THE  THIRD  BEADER. 


his  mother ;  and  young  as  the  little  suflferer  was,  he  had  learned 
that  all  the  labors  and  hopes  of  happiness,  short  of  heaven,  are 
profitless  and  vain. 


69.   Adoration  op  the  Shepherds. 

THERE  were  in  the  neighborhood  of  Bethlehem  some 
shepherds  watching  their  flocks  by  night.  They  saw  the 
radiance  visible  in  the  heavens  ;  they  heard  the  angelic  voices 
and  were  struck  with  awe.  Immediately  one  of  the  blessed 
spirits  who  were  singing  glory  to  God  and  peace  to  men, 
detached  himself  from  the  heavenly  host,  and  coming  to  the 
shepherds,  said :  "Fear  not,  for  behold  I  bring  you  tidings  of 
great  joy,  that  shall  be  to  all  the  people.  This  day  is  bom  to 
you  a  Saviour,  who  is  Christ  the  Lord,  in  the  city  of  David. 
And  this  shall  be  a  sign  unto  you :  you  shall  find  the  infant 
wrapped  in  swaddling  clothes,  and  laid  in  a  manger."  The 
angel  spoke  and  then  vanished,  like  a  stray  beam  of  light. 

2.  And  the  shepherds,  stunned  and  stupefied,  said  one  to 
another :  "  Let  us  go  over  to  Bethlehem ;  and  let  us  see  this 


ADORATION  OF  THE  SHEPHERDS. 


231 


word  that  is  come  to  pass,  which  the  Lord  hath  shown  to 
us,"  And  leaving  their  flocks  they  went,  and  they  saw  the 
holy  old  man  St.  Joseph,  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  the  infant 
God,  wrapped  in  swaddling-clothes,  and  laid  in  a  manger. 
And  they  adored  him.  And  they  went  away  joyfully,  telling 
everywhere  the  wonders  they  had  seen. 

3.  Now,  children,  was  not  this  birth  of  the  Son  of  God  a 
great  miracle  ?  It  seems  as  though  the  whole  earth  should 
have  been  in  motion  to  receive  him :  yet  he  is  born  by  night 
in  a  poor  stable ! — And  by  what  a  sign  was  he  recognized — 
"You  will  find  the  child  wrapped  in  swaddling-clothes  and 
laid  in  a  manger  ! "  What  then  1  Could  he  not  be  born  in  a 
palace,  amid  kingly  splendor,  he  the  Creator  and  Master  of 
all  things  ?  He  could,  if  such  had  been  his  will,  but  it  was 
not :  that  sign  would  not  have  marked  him  out  sufficiently  as 
our  Saviour. 

4.  Remember,  children,  what  I  have  told  you  he  came  to 
do ;  he  came  to  instruct  and  save  us.  To  instruct  us,  he 
had  to  heal  a  triple  wound  in  our  soul — pride,  avarice,  and 
love  of  pleasure :  this  he  did  by  presenting  himself  to  us  under 
the  sign  of  humility,  poverty,  and  suflFering.  To  save  us,  he 
had  to  expiate  our  faults  by  his  pains ;  hence  it  was  that  he 
was  born  in  a  stable.  In  beginning  to  live,  he  begins  to  do 
two  great  things,  which  we  shall  see  him  follow  up  in  after 
years  by  preaching  and  sacrifice ;  from  the  crib  he  is  our 
Teacher  and  our  Saviour.  Nevertheless,  we  cannot  mistake 
him  in  tbe  humblenens  of  his  birth. 

5.  That  little  child  who  cannot  yet  speak,  is  the  very  Son 
of  God,  his  eternal  Word.  Hear  the  evangelist  St.  John : 
"In  the  beginning,  before  all  beginning,  without  beginning, 
was  the  Word,  and  the  Word  was  with  God,  and  the  Word 
was  God.  AH  things  were  made  by  him,  and  without  him  was 
made  nothing  that  was  made.  In  him  was  life,  and  the  life  was 
the  light  of  men.  That  was  the  true  light  which  enlighteneth 
every  man  that  cometh  into  this  world.  And  the  Word  was 
made  flesh,  and  dwelt  among  us ;  and  we  saw  his  glory,  the 
glory  as  of  the  only-begotten  of  the  Father,  full  of  grace  and 
truth." 


!»  i 


232 


THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 


6.  The  prophets  sang :  "  Great  is  the  Lord,  and  worthy  of 
all  praise  ! "  We  sing  aronnd  his  manger :  Small  is  the  Lord, 
a  little  helpless  child,  and  worthy  of  all  love.  O  child,  the 
fairest  of  all  children,  where  do  I  behold  thee  ?  what  destitu- 
tion !  what  nakedness !  what  sufferings !  He  is  laid  on  straw ; 
the  night  is  cold  and  frosty :  thus  does  love  suffer  1  He 
weeps,  he  utters  plaintive  cries :  thus  does  love  speak  I  Who 
would  not  love  a  God  who  has  so  loved  us  ? 

7.  Mary  and  Joseph  were  amazed  at  all  these  things,  and 
they  gathered  and  treasured  them  in  thsir  hearts.  Happy 
Mary  I  happy  Joseph  1  You  it  was  that  first  beheld  the 
Saviour  of  the  world  1  It  was  your  hands  that  received  him 
as  he  came  from  the  maternal  womb,  wrapped  him  in  sw^d' 
dling-clothes,  and  laid  him  in  the  manger.  Mary,  it  was  thou 
that  nursed  him  1  Adore  him  as  thou  performest  that  sweet 
duty,  and  give  admission  to  the  other  worshippers  sent  by  the 
angels;  soon  there  shall  be  others  conducted  from  the  far 
East  by  a  ata,i\  appearing  as  a  prophetic  sign  in  the  heavens. 


':■ 


i;i 


60.   The  Anoelus  Bell. 

1.  rpHE  large  moon  of  autumn, 
-t-  The  guardian  of  night, 
Had  closed  her  pale  lamp 

In  the  firmament's  height ; 
From  the  Black  Abbey's  towers 

The  wild  doves  career'd, 
As  the  bright  dawn  of  mom 

Awaking  appeared ; 
And  the  old  marble  city, 
From  campanile  gray, 
Pruclaim'd  to  the  burghers 
All  Noreward — "'twas  day  I " 
Then  the  long,  mellow  knell 
Of  the  Angelu3  Bell 


THE  ANGELUS  BELL. 


233 


Seem'd  psalming  and  singing 
O'er  bless'd  crypt  and  cell, 

Where  the  Black  Monks  were  wont 
In  the  old  times  to  dwell. 

4(  4c  9|c  ♦  ♦ 

2.  Twas  noon,  at  the  market-cross, 
In  the  quaint  town. 
And  the  burgher  so  comely, 

The  tan  peasant  brown. 
And  the  gaunt  man-at-arms, 

And  mild  maiden  meek, 
With  the  peach-blush  of  beauty 

And  peace  on  her  cheek, 
Were  crowding  together 

In  hundreds  around, 
While  the  tall  cross  stood  stately 
'Mid  tumult  and  sound. 

Then  the  long,  mellow  knell 

Of  the  Angelus  Bell 
Upon  the  dense  crowd 

In  the  market-place  fell ; 
And  the  burgher  knelt  down, 

And  the  peasant  as  well. 
And  the  gaunt  soldier  rude. 

At  the  peal  of  the  bell, 
While  the  pure  maiden  voice 
Join'd  the  long,  mellow  knelL 

^^  jfi  •!«  •^  ^» 

2.  Twas  night  o'er  the  abbey. 

The  moon  'rose  again 
O'er  grand  domes  of  pleasure 

And  the  poor  haunts  of  pain ; 
And  the  wild  dove  was  nestled 

Again  in  the  cleft 
Of  the  old  belfry  tower 

That  early  he  left ; 
And  the  pale  monks  were  sitting 

Alone  and  alone. 


234 


THE  THIRD  READER. 


With  lamps  still  unlighted, 
And  penitent  moan ; 

When  the  Angelas  Bell, 

With  its  long,  mellow  knell, 
Broke  up  their  lone  reveries 
*' « ■   '      Like  a  blest  spell ; 

And  down  on  the  cold  earth 

The  holy  men  fell, 
The  grand  prayer  to  chant 
'^'"~     And  their  long  beads  to  tell ; 
'While  sang  with  its  psalm-voice 
The  Angelus  Bell. 


61.  The  Adoration  op  the  Magi. 


I 


WHEN  the  eastern  sages  beheld  this  wondrous  and  long- 
expected  star,  they  rejoiced  greatly ;  and  they  arose,  and 
taking  leave  of  their  lands  and  their  vassals,  their  relations  and 
their  friends,  set  forth  on  their  long  and  perilous  journey  over 
vast  deserts  and  mountains,  and  broad  rivers,  the  star  going 
before  them,  and  arrived  at  length  at  Jerusalem,  with  a  great 
and  splendid  train  of  attendants.  Being  come  there  they  asked 
at  once,  "Where  is  he  who  is  bom  King  of  the  Jews?" 

2.  On  hearing  this  question.  King  Herod  was  troubled,  and 
all  the  city  with  him ;  and  he  inquired  of  the  chief  priesis 
where  Christ  should  be  bom.  And  they  said  to  him  "In 
Bethlehem  of  Juda."  Then  Herod  privately  called  the  wise 
men,  and  desired  they  would  go  to  Bethlehem,  and  search  for 
the  young  child  (he  was  careful  not  to  call  him  King),  say- 
ing, "When  ye  have  found  him,  bring  me  word,  that  I  also 
may  come  and  worship  him." 

3.  So  the  Magi  departed,  and  the  star  which  they  had  seen 
in  the  east  went  before  them,  until  it  stood  over  the  place 
where  the  young  child  was — ^he  who  was  born  King  of  kings. 
They  had  travelled  many  a  long  and  weary  mile ;  "  and  what 
had  they  come  to  see?"    Instead  of  a  sumptuous  palace,  a 


THE  ADORATION  OF  THE  MAGI. 


235 


mean  and  lowly  dwelling ;'  in  place  of  a  monarcli  surr  sanded 
by  his  guards  and  ministers  and  all  the  terrors  of  his  state,  an 
infant  wrapped  in  swaddling-clothes  and  laid  upon  his  mother's 
kee,  between  the  ox  and  the  ass. 

4.  They  had  come,  perhaps,  from  some  far-distant  savage 
land,  or  from  some  nation  calling  itself  civilized,  where  inno- 
cence had  never  been  accounted  sacred,  where  society  had  as 


I 


and 


yet  taken  no  heed  of  the  defenceless  woman,  no  care  for  the 
helpless  child ;  where  the  one  was  enslaved,  and  the  other  ^ 
perverted;  and  here,  under  the  form  of  womanhood  and 
childhood,  they  were  called  i  'ion  to  worship  the  promise  of 
that  brighter  future,  when  peace  should  inherit  the  earth,  and 
righteousness  prevail  over  deceit,  and  gentleness  with  wisdom 
reign  for  ever  and  ever  1 

5.  How  must  they  have  been  amazed  1  how  must  they  have 


236 


THE  THIBD  ItEADEB. 


wondered  in  their  souls  at  such  a  revelation  1 — ^yet  such  was 
the  faith  of  these  wise  men  and  excellent  kings,  that  they  at 
once  prostrated  themselves,  confessing  in  the  glorious  Innocent 
who  smiled  upon  them  from  his  mother's  knee,  a  greater  than 
themselves — the  image  of  a  truer  divinity  than  they  had  ever 
yet  acknowledged. 

6.  And  having  bowed  themselves  down — first,  as  was  most 
fit,  oflfering  themselves, — they  made  offering  of  their  treasure, 
as  it  had  been  written  in  ancient  times,  "  The  kings  of  Tar- 
shish  and  the  isles  shall  bring  presents,  and  the  kings  of  Sheba 
shall  oflFer  gifts."  And  what  were  these  gifts  ?  Gold,  frank- 
incense, and  myrrh ;  by  which  mystical  oblation  they  professed 
a  threefold  faith ; — by  gold,  that  he  wa^  Ling ;  by  incense,  that 
he  was  God ;  by  myrrh,  that  he  was  man^  and  doomed  to 
death. 

1.  In  return  for  their  gifts,  the  Saviour  bestowed  upon 
them  others  of  mere  matchless  price.  For  their  gold  he  gave 
them  charity  and  spiritual  riches ;  for  their  incense,  perfect 
faith ;  and  for  their  myrrh,  perfect  truth  and  meekness :  and 
the  Virgin,  his  mother,  also  bestowed  on  them  a  precious  gift 
and  memorial,  namely,  one  of  those  linen  bands  in  which  she 
had  wrapped  the  Saviour,  for  which  they  thanked  her  with 
great  humility,  and  laid  it  up  among  their  treasures. 

8.  When  they  had  performed  their  devotions  and  made 
their  offerings,  being  warned  in  a  dream  to  avoid  Herod,  they 
turned  back  again  to  their  own  dominions ;  and  the  star  which 
had  formerly  guided  them  to  the  west,  now  went  before  them 
towards  the  east,  and  led  them  safely  home.  When  they  were 
arrived  there,  they  laid  down  their  earthly  state ;  and  in  em- 
ulation of  the  poverty  and  humility  in  which  they  had  found 
the  Lord  of  all  power  and  might,  they  gave  all  their  goods 
and  possessions  to  the  poor,  and  went  about  in  mean  attire, 
preaching  to  their  people  the  new  king  of  heaven  and  earth, 
the  Child-Kino,  the  Prince  of  Peace. 

9.  We  are  not  told  what  was  the  success  of  their  mission ; 
neither  is  it  anywhere  recorded,  that  from  that  time  forth, 
every  child,  as  it  sat  on  its  mother's  knee,  was,  even  for  the 
sake  of  that  Prince  of  Peace,  regarded  as  sacred — as  the  heu: 


lONA. 


237 


■ 


of  a  divine  nature — as  r»-<i  whose  tiny  limbs  enfolded  a  spirit 
vrhicli  was  to  expand  inio  the  man,  the  king,  the  God. 

10.  Sach  a  result  was,  perhaps,  reserved  for  other  times, 
when  the  who'  i  mission  of  that  divine  Child  should  be  better 
understood  th^n  it  was  then,  or  is  now.  But  there  is  an  an- 
cient tradition,  that  about  forty  years  later,  when  St.  Thomas 
the  Apostle  travelled  into  the  Indies,  he  found  these  wise  men 
there,  and  administered  to  them  the  rite  of  baptism ;  and 
that  afterwards,  in  carrying  the  light  of  truth  into  the  far 
East,  they  fell  among  barbarous  Gentiles,  and  were  put  to 
death ;  thus  each  of  them  receiving  in  return  for  the  earthly 
crowns  they  had  cast  at  the  feet  of  the  Saviour,  the  heavenly 
crown  of  martyrdom  and  of  everlasting  life. 


made 
1,  they 
'  which 
them 
y  were 
in  em- 
found 
goods 
attire, 
earth, 

lission ; 

forth, 
for  the 

le  heir 


*^fs^ 


62.     lONA. 

SLOWLY  and  sadly  the  company  of  Druids  retired  to  then* 
homes  in  the  depth  of  the  ancient  wood,  and  not  many 
hours  had  passed  when  they  quitted  lona  forever,  and  with 
it  resigned  the  religious  supremacy  of  those  far  Western  Isles, 
where  they  had  for  ages  ruled  almost  as  gods. 


238 


THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 


2.  After  solemnly  blessing  the  little  island,  St.  Columb- 
kille  proceeded  to  erect  a  stately  monastery  and  a  spacious 
church.  Some  years  after,  he  founded  a  convent  of  Augus- 
tinian  nuns,  and  the  lonely  isle  of  lona  was  soon  as  famous 
for  Christian  piety  as  it  had  formerly  been  for  heathen  super- 
stition. It  had  early  been  chosen  as  a  burial-place  for  the 
princes  of  the  Pictish  and  Scottish  monarchies,  on  account  of 
its  remote  and  isolated  position,  and  the  sacred  character  it 
had  acquired.  These  causes  continued  to  influence  the  neigh- 
boring sovereigns,  in  a  still  higher  degree,  after  the  island  had 
become  a  distinguished  seat  of  the  Christian  religion. 

3.  Even  now,  after  4;he  lapse  of  many  centuries  since 
prince,  or  king,  or  bishop,  was  buried  in  lona,  the  traveller 
may  still  behold  the  ruined  monuments  which  marked  their 
place  of  rest.  "  A  little  to  the  north  of  the  cathedral,"  says 
a  modern  writer,  "  are  the  remains  of  th^  bishop's  house ;  and 
on  the  south  is  a  chapel  dedicated  to  St.  Oran,  almost  entire, 
sixty  feet  Jong  and  twenty-two  broad,  within  the  walls,  but 
nearly  fil.  ed  up  with  rubbish  and  monumental  stones.  In  this 
are  many  tombstones  of  marble,  erected  over  the  great  lords 
of  the  Isles. 

4.  "South  of  the  chapel  is  an  inclosure  called  Reilig  Ouran, 
the  burying-ground  of  Oran,  containing  a  great  number  of 
tombs,  but  so  overgrown  with  weeds  as  to  render  most  of  the 
inscriptions  illegible.  In  this  inclosure  lie  the  remains  of 
forty-eight  Scottish  kings,  four  kings  of  Ireland,  eight  Nor- 
wegian monarchs,  and  one  kuig  of  France,  who  were  desurons 
of  reposing  on  this  consecrated  ground,  where  their  ashes 
should  not  mix  with  the  dust  of  the  vulgar.'' 

5.  Sic  transit  gloria  mundi,  might  well  be  inscribed  over 
the  forgotten  graves  of  lona,  where  so  many  princes  and 
mighty  men  have  mouldered  into  dust — where  the  architec- 
tural glories  of  former  ages  lie  around  in  broken  and  shape- 
less masses. 

"The  column,  with  its  capital,  is  level  with  the  dnst, 
And  the  proud  halls  of  the  mighty,  and  the  calm  homes  of  the  just, 
r'or  the  proudest  works  of  man,  as  certainly,  but  slower, 
Pass  like  the  grasB  at  the  sharp  scythe  of  flie  mower  t 


8T.  COLUMBA  BLESSING  THE  ISLES. 

"  But  the  gross  grows  again  when  in  majesty  and  mirth, 
On  the  wing  of  the  Spring  comes  the  Goddess  of  the  E^rth  ; 
But  for  man,  in  this  world,  no  spring- tide  e'er  returns 
To  tlie  labors  of  bis  handa  or  the  ashes  of  his  urns." 


239 


63.    St.  Columba  Blessing  the  Isles. 

1.  A  ND  now  the  choral  voices  hush'd, 
-lI.  And  ceased  the  or^an  tone ; 
As  to  the  altar-steps,  high  raised, 

Sad,  silent,  and  alone, 
The  traveller  pass'd.    To  him  all  eyes 

Tam'd  reverent  as  he  trod, 
And  whispering  voices,  each  to  each, 

Proclaim'd  the  man  of  God — 
Columba,  in  his  ancient  place, 
Radiant  with  glory  and  with  grace. 

2.  Back  fell  his  cowl — ^his  mantle  dropp'd, 

And  in  a  stream  of  light, 
A  halo  round  his  aged  head, 

And  robed  in  dazzling  white — 
The  saint  with  smUes  of  heavenly  love 

Stretch'd  forth  his  hands  to  pray, 
And  kings  and  thanes,  and  monks  and  jarls, 

Knelt  down  in  their  array. 
Silent,  with  pallid  lips  compress'd. 
And  hands  cross'd  humbly  on  theur  breast. 

8.  He  craved  a  blessing  on  the  Isles, 

And  named  them,  one  by  one — 
Fair  western  isles  that  love  the  glow 

Of  the  departing  sun. 
From  Arran  looming  in  the  south. 

To  northern  Orcades, 
Then  to  lona  back  again. 

Through  all  those  perilous  seai^ 


— M^'^.'^^ijafeiv  ■ 


240  THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 

Three  nights  and  days  the  saint  had  saii'd, 
To  count  the  Hebrides. 


4.  He  loved  them  for  lona's  sake, 

The  isle  of  prayer  and  praise, 
Where  Troth  and  Knowledge  found  a  home 

When  fall'n  on  evil  days. 
And  now  he  bless'd  them,  each  and  all, 

And  pray'd  that  evermore. 
Plenty  and  peace,  and  Christian  love, 

Might  smile  on  every  shore. 
And  that  their  mountain  glens  might  be 
The  abiding-places  of  the  free. 

6.  Then,  as  he  ceased,  kings,  abbots,  earls. 

And  all  the  shadowy  train, 
Rose  from  their  knees,  and  choral  songs 

Re-echoed  loud  again — 
And  then  were  hush'd — the  lights  bum'd  dim, 

And  ere  the  dawn  of  day, 
The  saint  and  all  the  ghostly  choir 

Dissolved  in  mist  away : 
Aerial  voices  sounding  still 
Sweet  harmonies  from  Duni's  hilL 

6.  And  every  year  Columba  makes, 

While  yet  the  summer  smiles, 
Alone,  within  his  spectral  boat. 

The  circuit  of  the  Isles ; — 
And  monks  and  &>>bots,  thanes  and  kings, 

From  vault  awl  charnel  start, 
Disburied,  in  tbe  rite  l  >  bear 

Their  dim,  allott-ed  part, 
And  crai-e,  upon  thrtr  bended  knees, 
A  blessing  on  fW  Heb'  iHos. 


THE  OBSERVING  JUDGE. 


241 


64.   The  Observing  Judge. 


IN  a  district  of  Algeria,  distinguished  by  a  name  which, 
being  translated,  signifies  The  Fine  Country,  there  lived,  in 
the  year  1850,  an  Arab  chief  or  sheik,  named  Bou-Akas,  who 
held  despotic  sway  over  twelve  tribes. 

2.  Having  heard  that  the  cadi,  or  judge,  over  one  of  these 
twelve  tribes,  administered  justice  in  an  admirable  manner, 
and  pronounced  decisions  worthy  of  King  Solomon  himself, 
Bou-Akas  determined  to  judge  for  himself  as  to  the  truth  of 
the  report. 

3.  Accordingly,  dressed  like  a  private  individual,  without 
arms  or  attendants,  he  set  out  for  the  cadi's  town,  mounted 
on  a  docile  Arabian  steed.  He  arrived  there  and  was  just 
entermg  the  gate,  when  a  cripple,  seizing  the  border  of  his 
mantle,  asked  him  for  alms. 

4.  Bou-Akas  gave  him  money,  but  the  cripple  still  main- 
tained his  hold.  "What  dost  thou  want?"  asked  the  sheik  ; 
"  I  have  already  given  thee  alms."  "  Yes,"  replied  the  beg- 
gar ;  "but  the  law  says,  not  only  'thou  shalt  give  alms  to  thy 
brother,'  but  also,  '  thou  shalt  do  for  thy  brother  whatsoever 
thou  canst.'" 

5.  "Well;  ««kI  what  can  I  do  for  thee?"  "Thou  canst 
save  me — poisr,  cirawling  creature  that  1  am ! — from  being 
trodden  umii^f  the  feet  of  men,  horses,  mules,  and  camels, 
which  woubd  certainly  happen  to  me  in  passing  through  the 
crowded  square,  in  which  a  fair  is  now  going  on." 

6.  "And  how  can  I  save  thee?"  "By  letting  me  ride 
behind  you,  and  puttmg  me  down  safely  in  the  market-place, 
where  I  have  business."  "  Be  it  so,"  replied  the  sheik.  And, 
stooping  down,  he  helped  the  cripple  to  get  up  behind  him ; 
which  was  not  accomplished  without  much  difficulty. 

7.  The  strangely-assorted  couple  attracted  many  eyes  as 
they  passed  through  the  crowded  streets ;  and  at  length  they 
reached  the  market-place.     "  Is  this  where 


you 


stop' 


ttsked  Bou-Akas.     "Yes."     "Then  get  down."    "Get  down 
jourseU:"    "  What  for  ? "    "  To  leave  me  the  horse, 


tf 


tt 


M.»vi»,^„,„j«ii3 


242 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


8.  "To  leave  you  my  horse  !  What  mean  you  by  that  ?" 
"I  mean  that  he  belongs  to  me.  Know  yon  not  that  we  are 
now  in  the  town  of  the  just  cadi,  and  that  if  we  bring  the 
ease  before  him  he  will  certainly  decide  in  my  favor  ?"  "  Why 
should  he  do  so,  when  the  animal  belongs  to  me  ?  " 

9.  "Do  you  not  think  that  when  he  sees  us  two, — you 
with  your  strong,  straight  limbs,  so  well  fitted  for  walking, 
and  I  with  my  weak  legs,  and  distorted  feet, — he  will  decree 
that  the  horse  shall  belong  to  him  who  has  most  need  of 
him?"  "Should  he  do  so,  he  would  not  be  ihejuift  cadi," 
said  Bou-Akas. 

10.  "Oh  I  as  to  that,"  replied  the  cripple,  laughing,  "al- 
though he  is  just,  he  is  not  infallible."  "So  !"  thought  the 
sheik  to  himself,  "  this  will  be  a  capital  opportunity  of  judging 
the  judge."  Then  turning  to  the  cripple,  he  said  aloud,  "  I 
am  content — ^we  will  go  before  the  cadi." 


66.    The  Obsertenq  Jxjdge — contmved. 

ARRIVED  at  the  tribunal,  where  the  judge,  according  to 
the  Eastern  custom,  was  publicly  administering  justice, 
they  found  that  two  trials  were  about  to  go  on,  and  would, 
of  course,  take  precedence  of  theirs.  The  first  was  between 
a  taleb,  or  learned  man,  and  a  peasant. 

2.  The  point  in  dispute  was  the  taleb's  wife,  whom  the 
peasant  had  carried  o£r,  and  whom  he  asserted  to  be  his  own 
better  half,  in  the  face  of  the  philosopher,  who  demanded  her 
back  again.  The  woman  (strange  circumstance  I)  remained 
obstinately  silent,  and  would  not  declare  for  either ;  a  feature 
in  the  case  which  rendered  its  decision  extremely  difficult. 

3.  The  cadi  heard  both  sides  attentively,  reflected  for  a 
moment,  and  then  said,  "  Leave  the  woman  here,  and  return 
to-morrow."  The  learned  man  and  the  laborer  each  bowed 
and  retired,  and  the  next  case  was  called.  This  was  a  differ- 
ence between  a  butcher  and  an  oil-Beller»    The  latter  appeared 


THE  OBSERTING  JUDGE. 


243 


It?" 
!  are 
r  the 
Why 

-you 
Iking, 
lecree 
ed  of 
cadi," 

?,  "al- 
;ht  the 
udging 
ud,  "I 


•ding  to 

justice, 

would, 

between 

hom  the 
his  own 
uded  her 
remained 
a  feature 
cult. 

;ed  for  a 
nd  return 
eh  bowed 
18  a  differ- 
:  appeared 


covered  with  oil,  and  the  former  was  sprinkled  with  blood. 
The  butcher  spoke  first  and  said  : 

4.  "  I  went  to  buy  some  oil  from  this  man,  and,  in  order 
to  pay  him  for  it,  I  drew  a  handful  of  money  from  my  purse. 
The  sight  of  the  money  tempted  him.  He  seized  me  by  the 
wrist.  I  cried  out,  but  he  would  not  let  me  go  ;  and  here  we 
are,  having  come  before  your  worship,  I  holding  my  money  in 
my  hand,  and  he  still  grasping  my  wrist." 

5.  Then  spoke  the  oil-merchant :  "This  man  came  to  pur- 
chase oil  from  me.  When  his  bottle  was  filled  he  said,  'Have 
you  change  for  a  piece  gold?'  I  searched  my  pocket,  and 
drew  cut  my  band  full  of  money,  which  I  laid  on  a  bench  in 
my  shop.  He  seized  it,  and  was  walking  off  with  my  money 
and  my  oil,  when  I  caught  hun  by  the  wrist,  and  cried  out, 
'Robber  I'  In  spite  of  my  cries,  however,  he  would  not  sur- 
render the  money ;  so  I  brought  him  here,  that  your  worship 
might  decide  the  case." 

6.  The  cadi  caused  each  to  repeat  his  story,  but  neither 
varied  one  jot  from  his  original  statement.  He  reflected  for 
a  moment,  and  then  said,  "  Leave  the  money  with  me,  and 
return  to-morrow."  The  butcher  placed  the  coins,  which  he 
had  never  let  go,  on  the  edge  of  the  cadi's  mantle.  After 
which,  he  and  his  opponent  bowed  and  departed. 

7.  It  was  now  the  turn  of  Bou-Akas  and  the  cripple. 
"My  lord  cadi,"  said  the  former,  "I  came  hither  from  a  dis- 
tant country.  At  the  city  gate  I  met  this  cripple,  who  first 
asked  for  alms,  and  then  prayed  me  to  allow  him  to  ride  be- 
hind me  through  the  streets,  lest  he  should  be  trodden  down 
in  the  crowd.  I  consented,  but  when  we  reached  the  market- 
place he  refused  to  get  down,  asserting  that  my  horse  belonged 
to  him,  and  that  your  lordship  wosld  surely  adjudge  it  to  him 
who  wanted  it  most." 

8.  Then  spoke  the  cripple.  "My  lord,"  said  he,  "as  I 
was  Coming  on  business  to  the  market,  and  riding  this  horse, 
which  belongs  to  me,  I  saw  this  man  seated  by  the  roadside, 
apparently  half  dead  from  fatigue.  I  offered  to  let  him  ride 
with  me  as  far  as  the  market-place,  and  he  eagerly  thanked 
V»;    Jiut,  (Ht  par  arriTBl,  he  refused  to  get  down,  and  wid 


nr: 


244 


THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 


that  the  horse  was  his.  I  immediately  reqnu'ed  him  to  ap- 
pear before  your  worship^  in  order  that  you  might  decide 
between  us." 

9.  Having  requu'ed  each  to  make  oath  to  his  statement, 
and  having  reflected  for  a  moment,  the  cadi  said,  "Leave 
the  horse  here,  and  return  to-morrow.''  It  was  done,  and 
Bou-Akas  and  the  cripple  withdrew  in  different  directions. 


66.    The  OBSEBViNa  Judge— conc2«cfed 


ON  the  morrow,  a  number  of  persons,  besides  those  imme- 
diately interested  in  the  trials,  assembled  to  hear  the 
judge's  decisions.  The  taleb,  or  learned  man,  and  the  peasant, 
were  called  first.  "Take  away  thy  wife,"  said  the  cadi  to  the 
former,  "  and  keep  her,  I  advise  thee,  in  good  order."  Then 
turning  towards  an  ofiicer,  he  added,  pointing  to  the  peasant, 
"  Give  this  man  fifty  blows."  He  was  instantly  obeyed,  and 
the  taleb  carried  off  his  wife. 

2.  Then  came  forward  the  oil-merchant  and  the  butcher. 
"Here,"  said  the  cadi  to  the  butcher,  "is  thy  money;  it  is 
truly  thine,  and  not  his."  Then  pointing  to  the  oil-merchant, 
he  said  to  his  officer,  "Give  this  man  fifty  blows."  It  was 
done,  and  the  butcher  went  away  in  triumph  with  his  money. 

3.  The  third  cause  was  called,  and  Bou-Akas  and  the  crip- 
ple came  forward.  "  Wouldst  thou  recognize  thy  horse  among 
twenty  others  ? "  said  the  judge  to  Bou-Akas.  "  Yes,  my 
lord."  "  And  thou  ?  "  "  Certainly,  my  lord,"  replied  the  crip- 
ple. "  Follow  me,"  said  the  cadi  to  Bou-Akas.  They  entered 
a  large  stable,  and  Bou-Akas  pointed  out  his  horse  among  the 
twenty  which  were  standing  side  by  side. 

4.  "'Tis  well,"  said  the  judge.  "Return  now  to  the  tribu- 
nal, and  send  me  thine  adversary  hithei*."  The  disguised 
shiek  obeyed,  delivered  his  message,  and  the  cripple  hastened 
to  the  stable  as  quickly  as  his  distorted  limbs  allowed.  He 
had  quick  eyes  and  a  good  memory,  so  that  he  yrm  able,  with- 


THE  OBSERVING  JUDGE. 


245 


0  ap- 
lecidc 

jment, 
Leave 
e,  and 
ns. 


le  imme- 
liear  tbe 
peasant, 
wU  to  the 
,n    Then 
I  peasant, 
eyed,  and 

J  butcher, 
iney ;  it  is 
■merchant, 
It  was 
lis  money, 
d  the  crip- 
orse  among 
Yes,  my 
ed  the  crip- 
hey  entered 
3  among  the 

to  the  tribu- 
he  disguised 
pie  hastened 
Alowed.  He 
able,  with- 


out the  slightest  hesitation,  to  place  his  hand  on  the  right 
animal. 

5.  '"Tis  well,"  said  the  cadi;  "return  to  the  tribunal." 
The  cadi  soon  afterwards  resumed  his  place,  and,  when  the 
cripple  arrived,  judgment  was  pronounced.  "The  horse  is 
thine,"  said  the  cadi  to  Bou-Akas ;  "go  to  the  stable  and  take 
him."  Then  to  thj  officer,  " Give  this  cripple  fifty  blows." 
It  was  done  ;  and  Bou-Akas  went  to  take  his  horse. 

6.  When  the  cadi,  after  concluding  the  business  of  the  day, 
was  retiring  to  his  b  juse,  he  found  Bou-Akas  waiting  for  him. 
"  Art  thou  discontented  with  my  award  ? "  asked  the  judge. 
"  No,  quite  the  contrary,"  replied  the  sheik.  "  But  I  want 
to  ask  by  what  inspiration  thou  hast  rendered  justice ;  for  I 
doubt  not  that  the  other  two  causes  were  decided  as  equitably 
as  mine.  I  am  not  a  merchant :  I  am  Bou-Akas,  sheik  of  the 
+w        tribes,  and  I  wanted  to  judge  for  myself  of  thy  reputed 

1.  The  cadi  bowed  to  the  ground,  and  kissed  his  master's 
hand.  "  1  am  anxious,"  said  Bou-Akas,  "  to  know  the  rea- 
sons which  determined  your  three  decisions."  "  Nothing,  my 
lord,"  replied  the  cadi,  "  can  be  more  simple.  Your  highness 
saw  that  I  detained  for  a  night  the  three  things  in  dispute?" 
"  I  did." 

8.  "  Well,  early  in  the  morning  I  caused  the  woman  to  be 
called,  and  I  said  to  her  suddenly,  '  Put  fresh  ink  in  my  ink- 
stand.' Like  a  person  who  has  done  the  same  thing  a  hun- 
dred times  before,  she  took  the  bottle,  removed  the  cotton, 
washed  them  both,  put  in  the  cotton  again,  and  poured  in 
fresh  ink,  doing  it  all  with  the  utmost  neatness  and  dexterity. 
So  I  said  to  myself,  'A  peasant's  wife  would  know  nothing 
about  inkstands — she  must  belong  to  the  taleb.'" 

9.  "  Good  1"  said  Bou-Akas,  noddin?,  his  head.  "And  the 
money?"  "Did  your  highness  remark,"  asked  the  cadi, 
"  that  the  merchant  had  his  clothes  and  hands  covered  with 
oil?"  "Certainly  I  did."  "Well;  I  took  the  money,  and 
placed  it  in  a  vessel  filled  with  water.  This  morning  I  looked 
at  it,  and  not  a  particle  of  oil  was  to  be  seen  on  the  surface 
of  the  water.    So  I  said  to  myself,  '  If  this  money  belonged 


246 


THE  TH/HD  BEADER. 


P' 


to  the  oil-merchant,  it  woald  be  greasy,  from  the  touch  of  his 
hands ;  as  it  is  not  so,  the  butcher's  story  must  be  true.'" 

10.  B  Akas  nodded  in  token  of  approval.  "Good!" 
said  he.  "  And  my  horse  ? "  "  Ah  1  that  was  a  diflFerent 
business ;  and,  until  this  morning,  I  was  greatly  puzzled." 
"The  cripple,  I  suppose,  did  not  recognize  the  animal?" 
remarked  the  sheik.  "On  the  contrary,"  said  the  cadi,  "ho 
pointed  him  out  immediately."  "  How,  then,  did  you  discover 
that  he  was  not  the  owner  ?  " 

11.  " My  object,"  replied  the  cadi,  "in  bringing  you  sep- 
arately to  the  stable,  was  not  to  see  whether  you  would  know 
the  /iOrsf?,  but  whether  the  horse  would  acknowledge  you. 
Now,  when  you  approached  him,  the  creature  turned  towards 
you,  laid  back  his  ears,  and  neighed  with  delight ;  but  when 
the  cripple  touched  him,  he  kicked.  Then  I  knew  that  you 
were  truly  his  master." 

12.  Bou-Akas  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  said, 
"  Allah  has  given  thee  great  wisdom.  Thou  oughtest  to  be 
in  my  place,  and  I  in  thine.  And  yet,  I  know  not ;  thou  art 
certainly  worthy  to  be  sheik,  but  I  fear  that  I  should  but 
badly  fill  thy  place  as  cadi ! " 


l^i  ni 


67.  'Henry  the  Hermit. 

IT  was  an  island  where  he  dwelt, 
A  solitary  islet,  bleak  and  bare. 
Short  scanty  herbage  spotting  with  dark  spots 
Its  gray  stone  surface.    Never  mariner 
Approach'd  that  rude  and  uninviting  coast, 
Nor  ever  fisherman  his  lonely  bark 
Anchor'd  beside  its  shore.    It  was  a  place 
Befitting  well  a  rigid  anchoret, 
Dead  to  the  hopes,  and  vanities,  and  joys, 
And  purposes  of  life ;  and  he  had  dwelt 
Many  long  years  upon  that  lonely  isle ; 
For  in  ripe  manhood  he  abaudon'd  arms, 


'^tii^,:.)^.. 


of  his 

n 
OOdl" 

afferent 
zzled." 
imal?" 
di,  "to 
Uscover 

ou  scp- 
d  know 
ge  you. 
towards 
)ut  wben 
that  you 

len   said, 
jst  to  be 
thou  art 
lould  but 


9tS 


•  \ 


HENBY,  THE  HERMIT. 

Honors  and  friends  and  conntry  and  the  world, 
Aud  had  grown  old  in  solitude.    That  isle 
Some  solitary  man  in  ether  times 
Had  made  his  dwelling-place ;  and  Henry  found 
The  little  chapel  which  his  toil  had  built 


247 


Now  by  the  storms  unroof 'd ;  his  bed  of  leaves 
Wind-scatter'd ;  and  his  grave  o'ergrown  with  grass. 
And  thistles,  whose  white  seeds,  winged  in  vain, 
Wither'd  on  rocks,  or  in  the  waves  were  lost. 
So  she  repair'd  the  chapel's  ruin'd  rcof, 


248 


THE  THIRD  READER. 


Glear'd  the  gray  lichens  from  the  altar-stone. 

And  underneath  a  rock  that  shelter'd  him 

From  the  sea-blast,  he  bnilt  his  hermitage. 

The  r*^  ants  from  the  shore  would  bring  him  food, 

And  •    ^  his  prayers ;  but  human  converse  else 

He  kti'iw  not  in  that  utter  solitude, 

Nor  ever  visited  the  haunts  of  men. 

Save  when  some  sinful  wretch  on  a  sick-bed 

Implored  his  blessing  and  his  aid  in  death. 

That  summons  he  delay'd  not  to  obey, 

Though  the  night  tempest  or  autumnal  wind 

Madden'd  the  waves ;  and  though  the  mariner. 

Albeit  relying  on  his  saintly  load, 

Grew  pale  to  see  the  peril.    Thus  he  lived 

A  most  austere  and  self-denying  man, 

Till  abstinence,  and  age,  and  watchfulness 

Had  worn  him  down,  and  it  was  pain  at  last 

To  rise  at  midnight  from  his  bed  of  leaves 

And  bend  his  knees  in  prayer.    Yet  not  the  less, 

Though  with  reluctance  of  infirmity, 

Rose  he  at  midnight  from  his  bed  of  leaves, 

And  bent  his  knees  in  prayer ;  but  with  more  zeal, 

More  self-condemning  fervor,  raised  his  voice 

For  pardon  for  that  sin,  'till  that  the  sin 

Repented  was  a  joy  like  a  good  deed. 

One  night  upon  the  shore  his  chapel  bell 

Was  heard ;  the  air  was  calm,  and  its  far  sounds 

Over  the  water  came  distinct  and  loud. 

Alarm'd  at  that  unusual  hour  to  hear 

Its  toll  irregular,  a  monk  arose, 

The  boatmen  bore  him  willingly  across. 

For  well  the  hermit  Henry  was  beloved. 

He  hasten'd  to  the  chapel ;  on  a  stone 

Henry  was  sitting  there,  cold,  stiff,  and  dead, 

The  bell-rope  in  his  hand,  and  at  his  feet 

The  lamp  that  stream'd  a  long  unsteady  light. 


GOD  IS  EVEBYWHEBE. 


249 


»* 

f 


68.    God  is  Everywhere. 

COME,  Editb,  and  look  at  the  ship  sailing  oat  of  the  hay" 
said  Charles  to  his  sister.  "See  how  gracefally  she  floats 
upon  the  water.  She  is  going  far  away,  thousands  of  miles, 
and  will  not  be  back  for  many  months." 

2.  "  Perhaps  she  will  never  come  back,"  said  Edith,  as  she 
came  to  the  window,  and  stood,  with  her  brother,  looking  at 
the  noble  vessel,  just  sailing  out  upon  the  broad,  pathless, 
stormy  ocean.    "  I  would  not  be  in  her  for  the  world  1 " 

3.  "Why  not,  Edith?"  asked  Charles.  "Oh  1  I  am  sure 
I  should  be  dtowued,"  replied  the  little  girl, 

4.  "You  would  be  just  as  safe  as  you  are  here,"  said 
Charles.  "  You  know,  father  tells  us  that  we  are  as  safe  in 
one  place  as  in  another,  for  the  Lord,  who  takes  care  of  us,  is 
everywhere." 

5.  "But  think  how  many  people  are  drowned  at  sea, 
Charles  ?  "    "  And  think  how  many  people  are  killed  on  the 

.  land,"  replied  Charles.     "  Don't  you  remember  the  anecdote 
father  told  us  one  day  about  a  sailor.  . 

6.  "  There  was  a  great  storm,  and  the  ship  was  in  much 
dangei .  Many  of  the  passengers  were  terribly  frightened,  but 
this  sailor  was  as  calm  as  if  the  sun  was  shining  above,  and 
the  sea  undisturbed  below.  *  Are  you  not  afraid  ? '  said  one 
of  the  passc$nger2     'No,'  replied  the  sailor,  'why  should  I 

110 


250 


THE  THIBD  BEADEB.. 


be  afraid?'    'We  may  all  be  drowned,'  said  the  passenger. 
'AH  of  us  have  once  to  die,'  calmly  returned  the  sailor. 

7.  "  The  passenger  was  surprised  to  see  the  man's  compo- 
sure. 'Have  yon  followed  the  sea  long? '  he  asked.  ' Ever 
since  I  was  a  boy  ;  and  my  ftither  fbllowed  it  before  me.' 

8.  " '  Indeed  I  And  where  did  your  father  die  ? '  *  He  was 
drowned  at  sea/ replied  the  sailor.  'And  your  grandfather, 
where  did  he  die?'  'He  was  also  drowned  at  sea,'  said  the 
sailor.  ,  'Father  and  grandfather  drowned  at  sea  I '  exclaimed 
the  passenger  in  astonishment,  'and  you  not  afraid  to  go  to 
sea ? '    'No  1  God  is  everywhere,'  sh'd  the  sailor  reverently. 

9.  " '  And  now,'  he  added,  after  pausing  a  moment,  '  may  I 
ask  you  where  your  father  died  ?'  'In  his  bed,'  replied  the 
passenger.  'And  where  did  his  father  die?'  'In  his  bed,' 
was  again  answered.  'Are  you  not,  then,  afraid  to  go  tp 
bed,'  said  the  sailor,  'if  your  father  and  grandfather  both 
died  there?'" 

10.  "  Oh  yes  I  I  remember  it  very  well  now,"  said  Edith. 
"I  know  that  the  Lord  takes  care  of  us  always,  wherever  we 
may  be.     I  know  that  he  is  everywhere  present." 

11.  "  And  he  will  take  as  good  care  of  the  people  in  that 
ship  as  he  does  of  those  who  are  on  the  land,"  replied  Charles. 
"  Father  8ays,that  we  should  always  go  where  our  duties  call 
us,  whether  it  be  upon  land  or  upon  sea,  for  the  Lord  can  and 
will  protect  us  as  much  ii^  one  place  as  in  another." 


69.  Anecdote  of  Fbederioe  the  Great. 

EREDERICE  the  Great,  kmg  of  Prussia,  havmg  rung 
his  bell  one  day,  and  nobody  answering,  opened  the  door 
where  his  page  was  usually  in  waiting,  and  found  him  asleep 
on  a  sofa. 

2.  He  was  going  to  awake  him,  when  he  perceived  the  end 
of  a  billet  or  letter  hanging  out  of  his  pocket.  Having  the 
curiosity  to  know  its  contents,  he  took  and  read  it,  and  found 
it  was  a  letter  from  his  mother,, thanking  htm  for  having  sent 


A  SMALL  OATECmSM. 


m 


iger. 

mpo- 
Ever 

e  was 
a-ther, 
id  the 
aimed 
go  to 
Dtly. 
may  I 
ed  the 
A  bed,' 
go  tp 
jr  both 

i  Edith, 
ever  we 

in  that 
Charles, 
ities  call 

can  aad 


her  a  part  of  his  wages  to  assist  her  in  her  distretis,  and  con- 
cluding with  beseeching  God  to  bless  him  for  his  fiUal  attention 
to  her  wants. 

3.  The  king  returned  softly  to  his  room,  took  a  parse  of 
ducats,  and  slid  them  with  the  letter  into  the  page's  pocket. 
Returning  to  his  apartment,  he  rung  so  violently  that  the 
page  awoke,  opened  the  door,  and  entered. 

4.  "  You  have  slept  well,"  said  the  king.  The  page  made 
an  apology,  and,  in  his  confusion,  he  happened  to  put  his  hand 
into  his  pocket,  and  felt  with  astonishment  the  purse.  He 
drew  it  out,  turned  pale,  and  looking  at  the  king,  burst  into 
tears,  without  being  able  to  speak  a  word. 

5.  "What  is  the  matter?"  asked  the  king;  "what  ails 
you?"  "Ah,  sir,"  said  the  young  man,  throwing  himself  at 
his  feet,  "  somebody  has  wished  to  ruin  me.  I  know  not  how 
I  came  by  this  money  in  my  pocket." 

6.  "My  friend,"  said  Frederick,  "God  often  sends  us  good 
in  our  sleep.  Give  the  money  to  your  mother ;  salute  her  in  my 
name,  and  assure  her  that  I  shall  take  care  of  her  and  you." 

7.  This  story  furnishes  an  excellent  instance  of  the  gratitude 
and  duty  which  children  owe  to  their  aged,  infirm,  or  unfortu- 
nate parents. 

8.  And,  if  the  children  of  such  parents  will  follow  the  ex- 
ample of  Frederick's  servant,  though  they  may  not  meet  with 
the  reward  that  was  conferred  on  him,  they  shall  be  amply 
recompensed  by  the  pleasing  testunony  of  theur  own  minds, 
and  by  that  God  who  approves,  as  he  has  commanded,  every 
expression  of  filial  love. 


mg  rung 
the  door 
im  asleep 

d  the  end 
avii^  the 
and  found 
wring  sent 


70.   A  Small  Catechism. 

1.  TT7HY  are  children's  eyes  so  bright  ? 
VY         Tell  me  why?" 
•"Tis  because  the  infinite, 
Which  they've  left  is  still  in  sight. 
And  they  know  no  worldly  blight- 
Therefore  'tis  their  eyes  are  brighf 


252  THE  THIRD  READER. 

2.  "Why  do  children  laugh  so  gay  ? 

Tell  me  why?" 
"  'Tis  because  their  hearts  have  play 
In  their  bosoms,  every  day, 
Free  from  sin  and  sorrow's  sway — 

Therefore,  'tis  they  laugh  so  gay.** 

3.  "  Why  do  children  speak  so  firee  ? 

Tell  me  why?" 
•'  'Tis  because  from  fallacy, 
Cant,  and  seeming,  they  are  free. 
Hearts,  not  lips,  their  organs  be — 

Therefore,  'tis  they  speak  so  free." 

4.  "Why  do  children  love  so  true? 

Tell  me  why?" 
'"Tis  because  they  cleave  unto, 
A  familiar  fav'rite  few, 
Without  art  or  self  in  view — 

Therefore  children  love  so  true.'* 


A 


71.   The  Prodigal  Son. 

CERTAIN  man  had  two  sons.  And  the  younger  of 
them  said  to  his  father :  '  Father,  give  me  the  portion 
of  substance  that  falleth  to  me.'  And  he  divided  unto  them 
his  substance. 

2.  "  And  not  many  days  after,  the  younger  son  gathering 
all  together,  went  abroad  into  a  far  country,  and  there  wasted 
his  substance  by  living  riotously.  And  after  he  had  spent  all, 
there  came  a  mighty  famine  in  that  country,  and  he  began  to 
be  in  want. 

3.  "  And  he  went,  and  joined  himself  to  one  of  the  citizens 
of  that  country.  And  he  sent  him  into  his  farm,  to  feed  his 
swine :  and  he  would  fain  have  filled  his  belly  with  the  husks 
the  swine  did  eat ;  and  no  man  gave  unto  him. 


THE  PRODIGAL  SON. 


253 


nger  of 
portion 
ito  them 

athering 

re  wasted 

spent  all, 

began  to 

le  citizens 
;o  feed  his 
the  huskg 


4.  "And  returning  to  himself,  he  said  :  '  How  many  hired 
servants  in  my  father's  house  have  plenty  of  bread,  and  I  here 
perish  with  hunger  !  I  will  arise,  and  I  will  go  to  my  father, 
and  say  lo  him :  Father,  I  have  sinned  against  heaven,  and 
before  thee  ;  I  am  not  now  worthy  to  be  called  thy  son  ; 
make  me  as  one  of  thy  hired  servants.'  And  rising  up,  he 
went  to  his  father 


5.  "  And  when  he  was  yet  a  great  way  off,  his  father  saw 
him,  and  was  moved  with  compassion,  and,  running  to  him, 
fell  upon  his  neck,  and  kissed  him.  And  the  son  said  to  him  : 
*  Father,  I  have  sinned  against  heaven,  and  before  thee  1  I 
am  not  now  worthy  to  be  called  thy  son.' 

6.  "  But  the  father  said  to  his  servants  :  '  Bring  forth 
quickly  the  first  robe,  and  put  it  on  him,  and  put  a  ring  on  his 
hand,  and  shoes  on  his  feet :  and  bring  hither  the  fatted  calf, 
and  kill  it,  and  let  us  eat  and  be  merry  ;  because  this  my  sou 
was  dead,  and  is  come  to  life  again  :  he  was  lost  and  is  foundi' 
And  they  began  to  be  merry 

1.  "  Now  his  elder  son  was  in  the  field  :  and  when  he  came, 
and  drew  nigh  to  the  house,  he  heard  music  and  dancing :  and 


'rrssi;:ij££»**»^ 


■■*ms^.wMiA 


i 
Iff 


254 


THE  THIRD  READER. 


U 


IM! 


he  called  one  of  the  servants,  and  asked  what  these  things 
meant.  And  he  said  to  him :  '  Thy  brother  is  come,  and  thy 
father  hath  killed  the  fatted  calf,  because  he  hath  received  him 
safe.'     And  he  was  angry,  and  would  not  go  in. 

8.  "His  father,  therefore,  coming  out,  began  to  entreat 
him.  And  he,  answering,  said  to  his  father :  '  Behold,  for  so 
many  years  I  serve  thee,  and  I  have  never  transgressed  thy 
commandment ;  and  yet  thou  hast  never  given  me  a  kid  to 
make  merry  with  my  friends :  but  as  soon  as  this  thy  son  is 
come,  who  hath  devoured  his  substance  with  harlots,  thou 
hast  killed  for  him  the  fatted  calf.' 

9.  "But  the  father  said  to  him:  'Son,  thou  art  always 
with  me,  and  all  I  have  is  thine.  But  it  was  fit  that  we  should 
make  merry  and  be  glad :  for  this  thy  brother  was  dead,  and 
is  come  to  life  again :  he  was  lost,  and  is  found.'" 

10.  After  this  parable,  so  tender  and  so  touching ;  after 
this  language,  so  simple  and  yet  so  profound,  so  far  beyond 
all  human  conceptions ;  after  these  lofty  revelations  of  the 
world,  of  life,  of  the  human  heart,  and  of  God,  one  would  wish 
to  speak  but  caunot :  the  heart  is  full,  but  we  cannot  give 
expression  to  our  feelings.  .  What  shall  I  tell  you,  children  ? 
do  yon  not  understand,  do  you  not  feel  the  parable,  that  this 
father  is  God  ?  that,  these  two  sons  are  men,  the  children  of 
God,  some  faithful,  others  unfaithful  to  their  father  ? 

11.  If  it  is  the  youngest  who  leaves  the  paternal  house,  it 
is  because  that  it  is  in  youth,  the  age  of  weakness  and  inex* 
perience,  that  the  errors  and  sad  excesses  of  life  usually  occur. 
When  a  man  has  remained  faithful  to  God,  on  through  youth 
to  mature  age,  the  age  of  strength  and  reason,  it  is  very 
rarely  that  he  falls  away  from  his  service  at  a  later  period. 

12.  That  a  prodigal  squanders  away  his  substance  m  the 
distant  country  to  which  he  betakes  himself,  you  can  also 
easily  understand.  At  the  very  moment  when  one  abandons 
God,  he  loses  all  the  treasures  of  the  soul,  sin  robs  him  of  all. 
That  there  is  famine  in  that  strange  land,  how  could  it  be 
otherwise  ?  God  is  the  only  source  of  life,  of  good,  of  happi- 
ness ;  away  from  him,  what  can  there  be  but  famine^  indigence, 
and  misery  ! 


\ 


BLANCHE  OF  CASTILE. 


255 


ringi 
I  thy 
lUim 

itreat 
or  so 
i  thy 
Lid  to 
gon  is 
thott 

ilwayi 
should 
d,  and 

;  after 
beyond 
of  the 
lid  wish 
ot  give 
lildren? 
hat  this 
Iren  of 

lOUse,  it 
id  inex- 
y  occur, 
rh  youth 
is  very 
Briod. 
;e  in  the 
can  also 
sibandons 
im  of  all. 
lid  it  be 
of  happV- 
indigence, 


13.  Then,  instead  of  serving  a  father,  the  sinner  becomes 
the  slave  of  a  master,  and  a  master  as  cruel  and  pitiless  as  the 
father  was  kind  and  good.  In  that  degrading  bondage,  all  is 
forgotten ;  nobility  of  birth,  generous  sentiments,  all,  all  is 
lost  sight  of,  and  the  wretched  slave  humbles  himself,  at  the 
bidding  of  his  tyrant,  even  to  feed  swine,  that  is  to  say,  the 
shameful  passions  of  the  heart;  and  he  is  repaid  for  this 
degradation  by  having  himself  no  other  food  but  that  which 
feeds  the  swine,  namely,  filthy  pleasures  and  degrading  ex- 
cesses. 

14.  The  new  tyrant  thus  served,  the  pussion  which  has 
enslaved  the  soul,  takes  pleasure  in  debasing  and  insulting  its 
slave  in  the  most  cruel  manner ;  it  humbles  him  to  the  very 
dust,  and  trails  him  through  the  mire :  "  Bow  down,"  tt  says, 
"  and  let  me  pass ;"  and  he  bows  down,  and  it  tramples  him 
under  its  feet 


72.   Blanche  OF  Castile. 

BLANCHE  was  the  daughter  of  Alphonsus  IX.,  king  of 
Castile,  and  of  Eleanor  of  England.  From  her  childhood 
she  displayed  great  firmness  of  character,  and  an  austerity  of 
manners  far  beyond  her  age.  She  was  married  at  the  age  of 
thirteen  to  the  young  Prince  Louis,  eldest  son  of  Philip  Au- 
gustus, and  who  afterwards  reigned  under  the  title  of  Louis 
VIII.  This  union,  which  took  place  on  'h«»  23d  of  May,  1200, 
was  one  of  the.  conditions  of  the  peace  c  /lacluded  the  same 
year  between  this  monarch  and  the  King  of  England,  uncle  to 
the  bride. 

<  2.  She  was  conducted  to  Normandy,  where  the  marriage 
took  place  with  a  magnificence  worthy  of  the  three  kingdoms 
interested  in  this  alliance.  Every  fete  and  amusement  then  in 
vogue  was  inaugurated  in  honor  of  the  occasion ;  but  the  two 
betrothed  were  their  most  beautiful  and  graceful  ornament. 
They  were  of  the  same  age,  and  gifted  with  every  quality 
which  could  attract  the  esteem  and  love  of  those  who  sur- 
rounded them.    The  most  flattering  eulogy  has  been  pTo- 


256 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


nounced  on  them,  that  they  lived  together  for  twenty-six  years 
without  a  single  disagreement. 

3.  But  the  wit  and  wisdom  of  Blanche  were  no  less  re- 
markable than  her  beauty  and  nobleness  of  character ;  so  that 
her  father-in-law.  the  king,  would  often  consult  her,  and  pay 
the  greatest  deference  to  her  advice ;  and  so  great  was  the 
ascendency  she  acquired  over  her  husband,  that  he  would  in- 
sist on  her  presence  in  the  council-chamber,  and  even  on  his 
military  journeys. 

4.  When  Blanche  became  a  mother,  she  displayed  still 
greater  virtues.  Esteeming  it  a  great  duty  to  nourish  her 
children,  she  would  not  suffer  this  care  to  devolve  on  another 
The  eldest  of  her  sons  dying  at  an  early  age,  the  second, 
being  destined  to  rule  over  France,  became  the  object  of  his 
mother's  tenderest  care.  She  seemed  to  foresee  the  glory 
which  this'  prince  would  shed  over  his  house,  and  at  his  birth 
ordered  the  church  bells  to  be  rung  (which  had  ceased  for  fear 
of  disturbing  the  queen),  "  to  invite  all  the  people  to  go  and 
praise  God  for  having  given  her  so  sweet  a  son  " 

5.  Blanche  devoted  herself  entirely  to  the  formation  of  the 
mind  of  this  young  prince.  Every  evening  before  they  retired 
to  rest,  she  took  her  children  on  her  knee,  caressed  them  with 
great  affection,  and  told  them  some  little  anecdote  of  some 
virtuous  action,  so  as  to  impress  it  on  their  infant  minds.  She 
repeatedly  said  to  Louis — "My  son,  God  knows  how  tenderly 
I  love  you  1  but  I  would  rather  see  you  dead  at  my  feet  than 
guilty  of  one  mortal  sin  ! " — words  repeated  from  age  to  age 
to  the  praise  of  the  good  Blanche  of  Castile  t 


73.   HaelI  Virgin  op  Virgins. 

1.  TT-A-IL  I  Virgin  of  virgins  I 
-ti-  Thy  praises  we  sing, 
Thy  throne  is  in  heaven, 
Thy  Son  is  its  King. 


HAIL,  VIRGIN  OF  VIRGINS. 

The  saints  and  the  angels 
Thy  glory  proclaim ; 

All  nations  devoutly 
Bow  down  at  thy  name. 


257 


Let  all  sing  of  Mary, 

The  mystical  Rod, 
The  Mirror  of  Justice 

The  Handmaid  of  God. 
Let  valley  and  mountain 

Unite  in  her  praise  ; 
The  sea  with  its  waters, 

The  sun  with  its  rays. 


miamim^ 


258 


.    THE  THIBD  READER. 

3  Let  souls  that  are  holy 
Still  holler  be, 
To  sing  with  the  angels, 
sweet  Mary,  of  thee. 
Let  all  who  are  sinners 

To  virtue  return, 
That  hearts  without  number 

With  thy  love  may  burn. 

4  Thy  name  is  our  power 
Thy  love  is  our  light; 

We  praise  thee  at  morning. 

At  noon  and  at  night 
wfthank  thee,  we  bless  thee, 

When  happy  and  Jre®' 
=       When,  tempted  by  Satan, 

We  call  upon  thee. 

5   The  world  does  not  love  thee, 
O  beautiful  one  I 
Because  it  despises 
,     The  cross  of  thy  Son. 
But  thou  art  the  Mother 
Of  all  Adam's  race ; 
.        The  birth-stain  of  Eva 
'Tis  thine  to  efface. 

i    0   Oh!  be,  then,  our  Mother. 
And  pray  to  the  Lord. 
■        That  all  may  acknowledge 

And  worship  his  Word ,    J 
That  good  men  with  courage      X 

May  walk  in  his  ways. 
And  bad  men  converted 

May  join  in  his  praise. 


f>. 


LEGEND  OF  DANIEL  THE  ANCHOBET. 


259 


74.  Legend  of  Daniel  the  Anchobet. 

DANIEL  the  Anchoret  knelt  in  prayer,  and  he  grieved  over 
the  evil  times  upon  which  his  lot  had  fallen.  "  The 
charity  of  God  has  gone  from  the  earth  and  returned  to 
heaven.  She  has,  folded  her  wings  there  near  the  throne,  and 
purposes  not  to  visit  earth  again.  There  is  no  one  to  yield 
the  tear  of  sympathy,  or  the  mite  of  relief  to  the  poor  of  the 
Lord.  There  is  no  charity  left  upon  the  earth,"  said  Daniel. 
He  rose  and  trimmed  the  lamp  that  huug  before  his  favorite 
shrine,  and  its  rays  lit  up  his  cell  with  unwonted  splendor. 

2.  The  stream  of  light  seemed  suddenly  to  grow  into  shape, 
and  the  holy  man  became  suddenly  aware  of  a  jewelled  sandal, 
a  flowing  rob<^,  and  a  snowy  wing,  revealing  the  presence  of  an 
angel  close  by  his  side.  He  would  have  prostrated  himself  to 
venerate  the  messenger  of  God ;  but  the  angel  forbade  him, 
and  motioned  him  to  take  his  staff  and  sally  forth  from  the 
hermitage.  "  Follow  me  and  I  will  show  thee  one  who  hath 
true  charity  for  the  poor." 

3.  The  Anchoret  folded  his  mantle  about  him,  and  bending 
his  head,  he  followed  the  angel  wheresoever  he  would  lead. 
They  went  on  until  they  entered  the  outskirts  of  the  neigh- 
boring town,  and  there  the  angel  stopped  before  an  humble 
cottage  and  disappeared,  leaving  the  Anchoret  to  contemplate 
the  scene  before  him,  and  learn  wisdom  from  what  he  might 
see.  Blocks  of  marble  and  slabs  of  travertine,  rough-shapencd 
by  the  chisel,  lay  scattered  round  about,  showing  that  the  oc- 
cupant of  the  cottage  followed  the  craft  of  a  stone-dresser. 

4.  The  craftsman  himself  was  seated  in  front  of  his  door 
under  a  canopy  formed  by  a  luxuriant  vine,  now  laden  with 
bunches  of  purple  grapes.  Some  ragged  little  children,  and  a 
few  aged  persons,  nearly  all  blind  or  crippled,  were  grouped 
around  the  stone-mason,  whose  name,  it  appeared  from  the 
discourse  which  Daniel  overheard,  was  Eulogius.  He  was 
instructing  and  encouraging  his  listeners  to  love  God,  be 
thankful  to  him  for  his  mercies,  and  resigned  to  the  trials  and 
privations  which  had  fallen  to  their  share. 


'^^'^WMP^ 


260 


THE  7HIRD  READE3. 


!  I 
i  i 


5.  It  became  clear,  from  the  parting  blessings  of  the  poor, 
that  they  were  to  see  him  again  on  the  morrow,  and  further- 
more, that  he  was  in  the  habit  each  day  of  gathering  them 
around  him  and  distribaiin'^  among  them  all  his  earnings 
not  strictly  necessary  to  supply  his  own  simple  wants.  The 
Anchoret  was  charmed  and  edified  beyond  measure  by  all  he 
had  seen  and  heard.  He  rejoiced  exceedingly  and  gave  thanks 
to  God. 

6.  Here,  then,  was  one  true  friend  of  the  poor.  But  oh  I 
he  began  to  think,  what  a  pity  it  is  that  one  who  is  so  great 
of  heart  should  be  so  poor  himself,  and  able  to  do  so  little 
good.  His  charity  is  indeed  unbounded ;  but  his  means,  alas  I 
are  not  equal  to  his  good-will.  And  straightway  the  holy 
man  betook  himself  to  prayer,  and  he  begged  of  God  that  the 
generous  artisan  might  become  rich  and  great ;  for  if  he  was 
so  liberal  in  a  condition  bordering  upon  indigence,  he  would 
be  much  the  more  liberal  with  unlimited  resources  subject  to 
his  command. 

t.  The  angel  appeared  again  to  the  Anchoret.  "Thy 
prayer,  O  Daniel,  is  not  a  wise  one ;  It  were  not  wejl  for 
Eulogius  to  become  rich."  But  Daniel  could  not  help  think- 
ing of  the  greater  number  of  poor  who  would  be  relieved,  and 
of  the  splendid  example  the  virtuous  and  frugal  Eulogius 
would  give  to  other  rich  men,  were  he  indeed  to  become  rich 
himself.  He  continued  to  pray  that  his  wish  might  be 
granted,  and  in  the  fervor  of  his  zeal  he  pledged  himself  to 
God  as  security  for  the  good  use  his  fellow-servant  would 
make  of  wealth  and  power,  were  they  to  become  his  portion. 

8.  So,  then,  God  granted  the  prayor  of  the  Anchoret,  and 
he  ordained  that  Eulogius,  while  hewing  stone  from  the  side 
of  a  hill,  displaced  a  mass  of  loose  fragments  and  earth,  which 
took  his  feet  from  under  him  and  threw  him  upon  the  ground. 
Eulogius  was  terrified ;  but  when  the  noise  was  over,  and  the 
dust  had  cleared  away,  he  rose  and  saw  lying  at  his  feet  a 
huge  lump  of  pure  shining  gold.  He  was  rich,  and  that 
neighborhood  saw  him  no  more,  for,  taking  with  him  his 
wonderful  treasure,  he  went  to  the  court  of  Justin  the  Elder, 
and  became  a  great  general  of  the  empire. 


LEGEND  OP  DANIEL  THE  ANCHORET. 


261 


ion. 
,  and 
»  side 
wbich 

•round, 
nd  the 
feet  a 
d  that 

Him  his 
Elder, 


75.   Legend  op  Daniel  the  Anchoret — continued. 

SEVERAL  years  were  past  and  gone,  and  Daniel  the 
Anchoret  still  continued  to  .trim  the  little  lamp  that 
burned  before  the  shrine  in  the  mountain  cave,  which  he  had 
chosen  for  his  ceil.  His  head  was  now  bent,  his  step  was 
slower  and  less  firm  as  he  went  down  the  mountain  side  to 
visit  and  console  the  neighboring  poor^  whom  he  loved  so 
much. 

2.  The  old  man's  thoughts  were  fixed  upon  the  future. 
His  long  hair  and  venerable  beard  were  tufted  with  white, — 
"crests,"  he  would  say,  "upon  the  wave  of  time  about  to 
break  upon  the  shore  of  eternity."  It  chanced  one  night, 
about  this  season,  that  Daniel  had  knelt  long  in  prayer,  when 
it  seemed  to  him  to  behold  the  throne  of  God  suddenly 
erected  as  for  a  solemn  judgment  about  to  take  place,  and  the 
culprit  summoned  before  the  awful  presence  of  the  Judge 
was  (but  oh  I  how  changed  from  his  former  self!)  the  stone- 
dresser  Eulogius. 

3.  Daniel,  likewise,  to  his  infinite  sorrow  and  dismay,  was 
called  to  appear  by  the  side  of  him  for  whose  good  conduct 
he  had  pledged  himself  as  security,  in  his  inconsiderate  zeal  to 
promote  the  welfare  of  the  poor.  Oh  1  what  a  dark  catalogue 
of  sins  was  brought  forward  against  the  unfortunate  culprit. 
He  had  used  the  gold,  by  miracle  put  within  his  reach,  to 
purchase  the  servants  of  the  aged  Emperor  Justin,  and  gain 
access  to  his  favor. 

4.  He  had  been  made,  by  means  of  bribery  and  corruption, 
the  chief  of  a  great  army ;  and  he  had  outstripped  all  the 
soldiery  in  excesses  of  every  kind,  in  the  same  proportion  as 
he  rose  above  them  in  power.  He  had  robbed  the  churches 
and  pillaged  the  cloisters,  and  finally  had  joined  one  Pompoy, 
and  one  Hypatius,  in  a  conspiracy  to  take  the  life  of 
the  Emperor  Justinian,  who  hud  succeeded  Justin  on  the 
throne. 

5.  Daniel  was  not  able  to  see  or  hear  more,  but  weeping 
bitterly^  ho  fell  prostrate  ou  his  face  iu  the  presence  of  God, 


THE  TaiRD  BEADEB. 

the  »ged  Bemnt  of  Of  ■ '^^^^^  h  eontamed  was  «P"» 
*^d  bV  remorse,  and  tte J^*  .^  ,,,.^,  B„„gj.,  w« 

toplicated  came  to  he  d'^^'^fl^  ^i^h  hb  Wo. 

toVice,  and  he  narrowly  e^ai*^',,^^  t„  i,;,  form« 

i  He  did  I«nan»,f«  ^^^'."^  a,  a  ,tone-kei*r,  and 
obscurity,  .voAed  fK*'"  **  ^"^  Jahnsisiving,  which  he  had 
ta  time  te,.=mcd  the  P^"'?,,^',,  ra^e  and  plunder  ThtB 
changed  in  an  evil  uo«r  '% '^T  °\  J^nchoret  succeeded  at 
the  ^od  ange.  K>.ard.««  "^  P^J^  but  too  often  harden, 
ength  to  «»™«»8i"°i^wrthe  order  of  God's  pro«. 

the'heart  of  'f  ^VttattTp^"  ■««  »o*  '^^''""■'*  ** 
dence  on  earth,  and  that  tne  p 

best  friends  of  the  poor.  . 


\r)^\   i  ;•■■ 


:^ 


ii.'V'' 


76.    CHHiDHOOD'S  YbABS. 


1. 


r 


1  In  many  »  ^>*' *' ^  Bttle  «=>««>'• 

The  ««»8t"»ri  W^g  wen  *«  "l* ' 
Gentle  of  heart,  yet  to"""^     ,„  her  mien ; 

Staid  was  the  dame,  and  mode^'  and  nicely  dean : 

Her  garb  was  coarse,  yet  '*»^'  " 

T.  Ltlyborder-d  «*• -^'•^.^^t  c«e  •, 

Beneath  her  ctan^wa.jm^-^^,^,„.V 

And  pendant  rnffles. »' 

Famt  with  oW  a^,  »^  .  ^^^^       ,.,,, . 
A  paur  of  ^Pf  *"'*!:"  in  leathern  case, 


CHILDHOODS  YEABS. 


263 


2.  Here  first  I  enter'd,  though  with  toil  and  pain, 
The  low-areh'd  vestibule  of  learning's  fame  : 
Enter'd  with  pain,  yet  soon  I  found  the  way, 
Though  sometimes  toilsome,  many  a  sweet  display. 
Much  did  I  grieve,  on  that  ill-fated  morn. 
When  I  was  first  to  school  reluctant  borne ; 
Severe  I  thought  the  dame,  though  oft  she  tried 
To  soothe  my  swelling  spu'its  when  I  sigh'd  ; 
And  oft,  when  harshly  she  reproved,  I,  wept, 
To  my  lone  comer  broken-hearted  crept, 
And  thought  of  tender  home,  where  anger  never  kept. 


3.  But  soon  Innred  to  alphabetic  toils. 
Alert  I  met  the  dame  with  jocund  smiles  ; 
First  at  the  form,  my  task  forever  true, 
A  little  favorite  rapidly  I  grew : 

And  oft  she  stroked  my  head  with  fond  delight, 
Held  me  a  pattern  to  the  dunce's  sight ; 
And  as  she  gave  my  diligence  its  praise, 
Talk'd  of  the  honors  of  my  future  days. 

4.  Oh,  had  the  venerable  matron  thought 
Of  all  the  ills  by  talent  often  brought ; 
Could  she  have  seen  me  when  involving  years 


^'^^MiitiJi**"' ' 


mmmmamm 


f,  :  I 


264 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


Had  brought  me  deeper  in  the  vale  of  tears, 
Then  had  she  wept,  and  wish'd  my  wayward  fate 
Had  been  a  lowlier,  an  unletter'd  state ; 
Wish'd  that,  remote  from  worldly  woes  and  strife. 
Unknown,  unheard,  I  might  have  pass'd  through  life. 

5.  Where  in  the  busy  scene,  by  peace  unblest. 
Shall  the  poor  wanderer  find  a  place  of  rest  ? 
A  lonely  mariner  on  the  stormy  main. 
Without  a  hope,  the  calms  of  peace  to  gain ; 
Long  toss'd  by  tempests  o'er  the  world's  wide  shore, 
When  shall  his  spirit  rest,  to  toil  no  more  ? 

Kot  till  the  light  foam  of  the  sea  shall  lave 
The  sandy  surface  of  his  unwept  grave. 
Childhood,  to  thee  I  turn  from  life's  alarms, 
Serenest  season  of  perpetual  calms,-— 
Turn  with  delight,  and  bid  the  passions  cease, 
And  joy  to  think  with  thee  I  tasted  peace. 
Sweet  reign  of  innocence,  when  no  crime  defiles. 
But  each  new  object  brings  attendant  smiles ; 
When  future  evils  never  haunt  the  sight, 
But  all  is  pregnant  with  unmixf  delight ; 
To  thee  I  turn,  from  riot  and  from  noise, — 
Turn  to  partake  of  more  congenial  joys. 

6.  'Neath  yonder  elm,  that  stands  upon  the  moor. 
When  the  clock  spoke  the  hour  of  labor  o'er, 

What  clamorous  throng's,  what  happy  groups  were  seen, 

In  various  postures  scatt'ring  o'er  the  green  I 

Some  shoot  the  marble,  others  join  the  chase 

Of  self-made  stag,  or  run  the  emulous  race ; 

While  others,  seated  on  the  dappled  grass, 

With  doleful  tales  the  light-wing'd  minutes  pass. 

Well  I  remember  how,  with  gesture  starch'd, 

A  band  of  soldiers,  oft  with  pride  we  march'd ; 

For  banners,  to  a  tall  ash  we  did  bind 

Our  kerchiefs,  flapping  to  the  whistling  wind  ; 

And  for  our  warlike  wms  we  sought  the  mead, 


ai 
ofl 


g« 


BBEARFAST-TABLB  SCIENCE.  265 

And  guns  and  spears  wo  made  of  brittle  rccd  ; 
Then,  in  uncouth  array,  our  feats  to  crown. 
We  storm'd  some  ruin'd  pig-sty  for  a  town. 

Pleased  with  bar  gay  disports,  the  dame  was  wont 
To  set  her  wheel  before  the  cottage  front 
And  o'er  her  spectacles  would  often  peer, 
To  view  our  gambols,  and  our  boyish  gear. 
Still  as  she  looked,  her  wheel  kept  tummg  round. 
With  its  beloved  monotony  of  sound. 
When  tired  with  play,  we'd  set  us  by  her  side 
(For  out  of  school  she  never  knew  to  chide), 
And  wonder  at  her  skill — ^well  known  to  fame — 
For  who  could  match  in  spinning  with  the  dame  ? 
Her  sheets,  her  linen,  which  she  show'd  with  pride 
To  strangers,  still  her  thriftness  testified ; 
Though  we  poor  wights  did  wonder  much,  in  troth, 
How  'twas  her  spinumg  manufactured  cloth 


J  seen, 


77.   Breakfast-Table  Science. 

WHAT  is  an  object  lesson?"  said  Lucy  to  her  mother, 
one  day  after  breakfast.  "  I  have  been  reading  about 
<Dne  in  a  book ;  and  I  do  not  know  exactly  what  it  means." 

"An  object  lesson,"  said  her  mother,  "is  a  lesson  which 
teaches  the  properties,  or  qualities,  of  objects.  An  object  is 
any  thing  which  you  can  see,  or  feel,  or  taste.  A  tree  is  an 
object ;  so  is  a  chair ;  so  is  a  slice  of  bread. 

2.  "  A  lesson  about  a  tree  tells  you  of  the  properties  which 
distinguish  a  tree  from  other  things ;  of  its  root,  its  trunk,  its 
branches,  its  leaves,  its  fruit,  its  bark ;  of  the  way  it  grows, 
and  the  uses  made  of  its  wood.  Object  lessons  teach  us  to 
nse  our  senses ;  to  observe,  and  compare,  and  reflect." 

"  I  should  like  to  have  some  objxt  lessons ;  will  you  be  so 
good  as  to  give  me  some  ?  " 

8.  "  I  Willi  my  dear  daugh%,  on  one  condition ;  and  that 

h 


1? 


XHE  THIBD  BEADEB. 
^  .  vour  careful  attention.    You  must  Men 

is,  that  you  give  mc  y^^^^^^^^^  ^o  me  with  your  mmd." 
t;  mo  with  your  -^^';i^  ^2^X^^^  ^-^y^  "  '^"^  '''  T 

''^^''"'^":Zto     What  object  will  you  teach  me 
obliged  to  you  besides,  . 

about  ? "  ,      ,  „   .  t^uie »»  gaid  her  mother,  "  with 

4   ..Here  is  the  brealtfast-tabJe  ^^^  ^^^^^.^.^ 

the  remains  of  the  breakfast  upon  It  wahp^  ,^  ^^^^^^^^^ 

fpU  plate.   ^^^^.^;^^^J^  tp^ose  1  give  you  some 
enough  for  many  '^^J^*^  VZ  breakf^Uable.     And,  first  of 
lessons  in  the  Bcience  of  ^J  bn^ak^^  ^^^^^  ^^^^  ^^^  ^,, 
all,  let  us  see  what  it  is  tnaT.  ui 
are  held  up  by." 

"It  is  a  table."       .   ^  ,,„  ^^^hle  is  made  of  mahogany. 
B.  ..Very  pM.    ^fJ^^^^Z^po..  in  the  W«* 

Mahogany  iB  the  irood  rf  a  t««  *        b  ^j  g^^. 

Mies,  to  Central  An«™».  »^'^  ^t  joTO  the  trees. 

America.    Mea  p>  ■■*>,*? '^^^rfMatoe  and  c»t  down 

jtr"^;- itr^o-n.the  ^oa,,^. 

Shipped  to  Europe  or  this  countiT.   ^^  ^^  .^  ^^^  ^^liged 

unhealthy.  ^  is  a  beautiful  wood,  and  takes  a 

,<;,  which  he  had  P<""nt^;"S^^ gave  them  to  his 
ttot  is,  as  weight  to  make  ''^^^  »\„„ae,  supposmg 
tthe;,  a  physician   """J-^b^'^caxpenters  would  not 

.^     *t^letimea««>o^^:-,P:^,r^et 
t^JtrSe-t^"  "---  whicM^dhe^^th^ 


BBEAKFAST-TABLE  SCIENCE. 


267 


isten 

d." 
much 

"  witU 
lacerfl, 
►stance 
1  8ome 
irst  of 
on  and 


hogany. 
lie  West 
i  South 
he  trees, 
jut  down 
oast,  and 

re  obliged 
and  often 

d  takes  a 
the  end  of 

lome  some 

as  ballast ; 

hem  to  bis 
supposing 
^ould  not 

'oo  bard  for 

<v7as  in  want 
to  make  it 
been  tbrown 

and  ITOl. 


aside.  Ho  was  unwilling  at  first,  because  he  thonght  it 
would  spoil  his  tools ;  but  he  at  last  cousented.  When  the 
box  was  made  and  polished,  it  far  outshone  any  thing  in  the 
physician's  new  house ;  and  people  came  from  far  and  near  to 
look  at  it. 

9.  "  A  lady  of  rank  had  a  bureau  made  from  one  of  the  logs ; 
and  from  this  time  the  use  of  mahogany  was  gradually  ex- 
tended till  it  became  general. 

"Articles  of  mahogany  furniture  were  once  formed  of  the 
solid  wood,  which  made  them  quite  expensive  ,  but  that  has 
been  obviated  by  a  modem  invention. 

10.  "A  log  of  mahogany  is  now  cut  into  very  thin  pieces, 
called  veneers,  by  sharp  saws ;  and  these  veneers  are  nicely 
glued  upon  pine,  so  that  we  can  have  now  what  looks  like  a 
mahogany  table,  though  it  is  really  made  of  pine,  with  a 
covering  of  mahogany  outside.  Such  a  table  is  much  cheaper 
than  if  it  were  all  mahogany.  Then  next  comes  the  table- 
cloth. This  is  made  of  linen.  Linen  is  produced  from  a  plant 
called  flax.    Have  you  ever  seen  flax  growing  ?" 

11.  "Yes,  father  showed  me  some  last  summer  growmg  in 
a  field  on  grandfather's  farm.  It  had  a  green  stalk,  with  a 
pretty  blue  flower.  When  father  showed  it  to  me,  he  repeated 
a  piece  of  poetry  about  a  little  girl  that  was  lost  in  a  ship- 
wreck, and  it  said,  '  Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the.  fairy  flax.' 
Father  told  me  that  this  meant  that  her  eyes  were  as  blue  as 
those  flowers." 

12.  "I  am  very  glad,  my  dear,  that  you  remember  so  well 
what  your  father  tells  you.  After  the  flowers  wit.  dead,  the 
plants  are  pulled  up.  The  seeds  are  then  beatt'u  out;  the 
stalks  are  soaked  in  water,  and  dried,  and  ('orol>ed,  and 
bleached,  until  they  become  a  bundle  of  fibres,  like  very  fine 
hair.  These  are  spun  into  threads,  and  the  threads  are  woven 
into  cloth. 

13.  "You  will  see  that  the  surface  of  the  table-cloth  is  not 
uniform,  or  all  alike,  bnt  that  it  has  patterns,  or  figures, 
wrought  into  it.  This  is  all  done  by  very  curious  and  in' 
genious  machinery. 

/'Flax  is  not  QiQcb  rused  in  our  country;  nor  are  there 


THE  THnO)  BEADEB. 
288  ^^  it  to  great 

„an,  manufactories  of  «»»  d'^lA  »''  ?""  "'  ^''^h 
rl'r:^S  no,  that  t>.e«ax.»»b.eac>.ea.    What  .s. 

U   "  Most  linen  fabrics  ««  "^,„tt  «pon  the  grass,  in 
„td  to  he  aoneb,^^::^  «*;f„„,r  ciothisdipped 

the  sun,  and  ««qnen«y  'f"L  Ae  color  out  at  once. 

into  a  liind  of  liqmi  wliich  tato  tne  ^^^^^^  ^^^    ,e 

16  "  Now  wc  »>»'«  *?  ''^'iftkbte     Here  are  the  coffee- 

V.;  next  see  w*":' ^^e-J^t  t  -tm^-^'  »*  *"'  ""^ 
-       pot,  the  teapot,  the  w»t«poM_^^„fj„ 

11    "They  are  made  of  suver,        rr 
the  silver  hJf-dollar  father  gave  ".e^-;^  Oj,„  ,e^ 

..Your  answer  is  a  na^al  one  >ny  .^  appearance. 

sons  than  you  judge  of  ^^''f^^^Zb.J  look  like  it. 
These  are  not  made  of  »'«':  ^Tj,    '  but  ours  are  made 

^t  "Rich  people  h»"*^'^^XGe™'"'  *"'  "Tff 
„f  a  white  metal.  «on>»oriy  called  ^^^^^  ^^       ^^    f 

over  or  ptated,  with  real  f '«•   .^J^  petals.    Articles  of 

twskind are  "^  ;Xllo^uade  in  our  country." 
in  England,     iaey  "-^^ 

r  ^  us  next  go  to  the  e^^^rXf -«-  *'•' 
L\hey  are  «' »'»/Xr  X"' Our  dimier-pUte.  you 
but  they  may  be  of  other 


I      ! 


BREAKFAST-TABLE  SCIENCB., 


269 


great 
Ger- 
noTtb 

Liver- 

^bat  is  . 

f  flax  18 
B  in  my 

Q  vTOven. 
grass,  in 
is  dipped 

;e. 

)read-,  "^^ 
the  coffee- 
tbe  sugar- 
look  like 

Older  per- 
appearance. 

it. 
rs  are  made 
ver,  covered 
is  made  of 
Articles  of 

Birmingii*"^' 


nd  the  plates, 
a  \f bite  color ; 
ner-plates,  yon 


know,  are  coyered  all  over  with  blue  fignrefl.  They  are  all 
called,  in  common  speech,  earthen-ware,  or  crockery-ware,  and 
sometimes  China-ware,  because  much  of  it  comes  from  China. 

2.  "All  kinds  of  crockery-ware  are  made  out  of  earth  or 
clay.  The  finest  sorts,  which  are  sometimes  called  porcelain, 
are  made  partly  of  clay,  and  partly  of  flint  stones  which  have 
been  burned,  pounded,  and  ground  into  a  powder. 

"This  material  is  mixed  with  water,  and  made  into  a  sort 
of  paste  or  dough ;  this  is  shaped  or  moulded  into  cups,  plates, 
or  dishes,  and  it  is  done  very  quickly  and  neatly  by  men  who 
are  accustomed  to  it. 

3.  "They  use  a  wheel  to  help  them  shape  it.  Then  it  is 
put  into  an  oven  and  heated,  and  when  it  comes  out  it  is 
glazed,  and  sometimes  painted  with  figures  and  colored." 

4.  "What  do  you  mean  by  glazed,  mother?" 

"  If  you  look  at  a  cup,  or  plate,  carefully,  you  will  see  that 
the  surface  is  not  merely  smooth,  but  polished  and  bright, 
something  like  glass.  This  is  the  efifect  of  the  glazing.  A 
substance  made  of  lead,  called  litharge  of  lead,  is  put  into 
water,  and  mixed  up  with  ground  flints,  or  granite,  so  as  to 
make  a  liquid  like  thick  cream ;  and  Into  this  the  articles  which 
require  glazing  are  dipped. 

5.  "They  are  then  put  into  an  oven  and  heated  again.  The 
glazing  makes  them  easily  washed,  and  enables  them  to  hold 
any  liquid  without  absorbing  it. 

"Earthen-ware  and  porcelain-ware  are  made  in  England, 
France,  China,  and  to  some  extent  in  our  country.  There  is  a 
place  in*  France  where  they  make  plates  and  cups  and  saucers 
which  have  most  beautiful  paintings  upon  them  of  birds,  or 
flowers,  or  places. 

6.  "These  sell  for  a  great  deal  of  money;  and  in  looking 
at  them,  it  seems  impossible  to  believe  that  they  were  made  of 
clay  and  flint  stones. 

"  The  knives  are  divided  into  two  parts,  the  blade  and  the 
handle.  The  blade  is  made  of  steel,  which  is  a  preparation  of 
iron.    Iron  is  a  metal  which  is  dug  out  of  the  earth. 

7.  "When  first  found,  it  is  not  in  the  state  in  which  you 
now  see  it,  but  it  looks  like  a  rough,  dark-brown  stone.    This 


-■■itiistmmKw.-j!. 


V^'j>..-i 


'k*^V^-^mm^-i'-iiaim^..~ki^j* 


270 


THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 


i;    ! 


• 


is  pat  into  a  furnace  and  melted,  and  the  iron  is  drawn  off  in 
a  liquid  form.  Iron  is  the  most  useful  of  metals,  and  it  is 
found  in  nearly  all  parts  of  the  world. 

8.  "Steel  is  made  by  putting  bars  of  iron  into  a  close  box 
with  fine-powdered  charcoal,  and  then  heating  the  whole  very 
hot.  The  vapor  of  the  charcoal  acts  in  a  peculiar  way  upon 
the  iron,  and  makes  it  harder,  more  elastic,  and  less  liable  to 
rust.  Steel,  also,  when  struck,  sounds,  or  rings,  louder  than 
iron,  and  it  takes  a  brighter  polish. 

9.  "The  handles  of  knives  are  made  of  ivory,  bone,  horn, 
or  wood.  Ours  are  made  of  bone.  Knives  are  made  in  Eng- 
land, Germany,  and  ateo  in  our  own  country.  Sheffield,  in 
England,  is  a  place  where  many  are  made. 

"  Do  you  see  any  thing  else  on  the  table  that  is  made  of 
iron?"  ; 

10.  "No,  mother,  I  do  not." 

"There  is  something  else,  though  you  do  not  perceive  it. 
This  waiter  is  made  of  iron.  It  is  made  of  very  thin  iron, 
called  sheet  iron,  which  is  first  painted,  and  then  varnished. 
A  great  deal  of  ware  of  this  kind  is  made  in  Birmingham,  in 
England.  This  is  a  large  and  rich  city,  and  the  people  are 
mostly  employed  in  various  manufactures  of  metal. 

11.  "They  make  buttons,  buckles,  thimbles,  pencil-cases, 
steel  pens,  teapots,  trays,  cake-baskets,  and  many  other  similar 
articles. 

"The  spoons  are  made  of  silver, — ^real  silver.  Silver  is  a 
metal,  which  is  dug  out  of  the  ground.  It  is  one  of  the  pre- 
cious metals,  so  called ;  it  comes  next  in  value  to  geld  and 
platinum,  which  latter  is  rarely  used. 

12.  "  Money  is  coined  from  gold  and  silver.  Silver  is  used 
for  many  purposes ;  and  various  beautiful  and  useful  things 
are  made  from  it.  It  comes  mostly  from  Mexico  and  South 
America. 

"  Having  now  disposed  of  the  table,  its  covering,  and  the 
furnishing  of  the  table,  let  us  proceed  to  consider  what  we 
have  had  to  eat. 

13.  "  Our  breakfast  has  consisted  of  tea,  coffee,  sugar,  bread, 
butter,  milk,  boiled  eggs,  and  baked  apples. 


BBEAKFAST-TABLE  SCIEMCE. 


271 


aff  in 

it  is 

8  box 
i  very 
'  upon 
ble  to 
r  than 

,  horn, 
nEng- 
eld,  in 

lade  of 


;eiye  it. 
in  iron, 
.rnished. 
rham,  in 
lople  are 

cil-cases, 
ir  similar 

ver  is  a 
the  pre- 
sold and 


er 


is  used 
ul  things 
ttd  South 

and  the 
what  we 

jar,  bread, 


"  Tea  is  the  leaf  of  a  shrub  which  grows  in  China  and 
Japan.  It  is  from  four  to  six  feet  high.  The  leaves  are 
gathered  twice  a  year ;  in  the  spring  and  the  autumn.  They 
are  dried  a  little  in  the  sun,  then  laid  on  plates  of  hot  iron, 
and  afterwards  rolled  on  mats  with  the  palm  of  the  hand. 
There  are  many  varieties  of  tea,  but  they  are  divided  into  two 
great  classes,  black  tea  and  green  tea. 

14.  "  These  do  not  come  from  the  same  kind  of  plant. 

"  The  Chinese  are  very  fond  of  tea,  and  always  have  been 
so.  It  was  introduced  into  Europe  about  the  year  1660 ;  and 
it  is  now  very  much  used,  especially  in  England  and  America. 
A  great  many  ships  come  from  China  which  are  entirely  filled 
with  tea.  It  is  packed  in  wooden  chests,  which  have  a  lining 
of  lead. 

15.  "  CofiFee  is  the  berry  of  an  evergreen  shrub  which  grows 
in  Arabia,  and  the  East  and  West  Indies.  It  is  about  ten  feet 
high,  aad  its  beri^,  when  ripe,  is  red,  and  not  very  unUke  a 
cherry.  At  the  proper  time  the  fruit  is  gathered,  dried  in  the 
sun,  and  the  berries  extracted  by  the  help  of  mills.  The  ber- 
ries are  agam  dried,  packed  in  bags,  and  sent  away  in  vessels. 
When  we  want  to  make  coflFee,  the  berries,  or  grains,  are 
roasted,  ground,  and  boiled  in  water.  The  finest  coffee  comes 
from  Mocha,  in  Arabia. 

16.  "Tea  is  mr.de  by  steeping  the  leaves  in  boiling  water, 
which  uncurls  them,  and  makes  them  look  larger  than  they 
were  when  put  in.  Thus  tea  is  properly  an  infusion.  But 
coffee  is  a  decoction,  because  it  is  made  by  boiling.  Now  will 
you  promise  to  remember  the  distinction  between  these  two 
hard  words?" 

IT.  "I  will  try.  Decoction  is  when  you  boil  any' thing, 
and  infusion  is  when  you  only  steep  it." 

"  Your  father  drinks  coffee  for  breakfast,  and  I  drink  tea  ; 
but  you  drink  milk.  Tea  and  coffee  both  belong  to  those  arti 
cles  of  food  which  are  called  dimulant,.  They  act  upon  the 
nerves,  and  produce  a  slight  exhilaration  or  excitement.  They 
are  not  good  for  little  boys  and  girls ;  and  they  should  be 
used  only  in  moderation  by  grown  persons. 

18.  "When  your  father  comes  home  at  night,  tured  with 


N    ' 


1  ; 


I 


«  I  I 


« 


I  I 


272 


THE  THna>  BEADEB. 


his  day's  work,  a  cup  of  tea  refreshes  him  ;  but  if  he  were  to 
drink  too  much,  or  drink  it  too  strong,  it  would  keep  him 
awake,  and  he  would  have  a  headache  the  next  morning. 
Many  persons  injure  themselves  by  drinking  too  much  strong 
tea  and  coffee. 

19.  "  Sugar  is  the  produce  of  a  plant  called  the  sugar-cane, 
which  grows  in  the  West  Indies,  and  many  other  warm  coun- 
tries. It  is  about  ten  feet  high,  and  about  two  inches  in 
diameter  ;  it  looks  a  good  deal  like  our  Indian  corn.  When 
ripe,  the  canes  are  full  of  a  rich,  sweet  juice. 

20.  "  They  are  then  cut  down,  and  next  crushed  in  a  mill ; 
the  liquid  that  runs  out  is  boiled  away,  and  a  little  lime-water 
is  mixed  with  it,  to  help  to  clarify  it,  that  is,  make  it  clear. 

"  When  this  liquid  cools,  it  settles  down  in  the  form  of 
brown  sugar ;  and  the  liquid  that  runs  off  is  molasses.  Brown 
sugar,  which  is  sometimes  called  raw  sugar,  is  refined  and  pu- 
rified, and  thus  turned  into  loaf  sugar.  To  do  this,  it  is  boiled 
in  lime-water,  and  the  heatUd  liquor  is  cleansed,  or  purified, , 
and  then  poured  into  conical  moulds ;  and  when  it  cools,  it 
appears  in  the  form  of  a  loaf  of  hard  white  sugar. 

21.  "  Sugar  is  made  from  other  substances  than  the  juice 
of  the  sugar-cane.  In  France,  the  juice  of  the  beet-root  is 
much  used  for  this  purpose.  Sugar  has  also  been  obtained 
from  grapes,  and  from  liquorice  root.  In  our  country,  much 
maple-sugar  is  made  by  boiling  down  the  juice  of  a  kind  of 
maple-tree." 


79.   Breakfast-Table  Scienoe — concluded, 

YOXJ  will  observe  that  there  are  two  kinds  of  bread  on  the 
table  ;  one  is  brown  and  the  other  is  white ;  but  they  are 
both  made  of  wheat.  Wheat  is  the  growth  of  a  plant  which 
looks  something  like  a  very  tall  blade  of  grass ;  when  it  is 
ripe,  it  is  cut  down,  and  spread  upon  the  floor  of  a  barn,  and 
then  beaten  with  a  wooden  stick  called  a  flail,  which  causes 
the  wheat  to  drop  out.         , 


BREAKFAST-TABLE  SCIENOB. 


273 


causes 


2.  "It  then  appears  in  the  form  of  small,  brown  grains  as 
big  as  apple-seeds. 

"These  grains  are  carried  to  a  mill  and  ground  into  flour. 
This  is  done  by  having  them  put  between  two  stones,  the  low- 
er of  which  is  fixed,  while  the  upper  one  turns  round.  The 
brown  bread  is  made  of  flour  in  the  state  it  is  when  it  comes 
from  the  mill. 

3.  "The  white  bread  is  made  of  flour  which  has  been  passed 
through  a  very  fine  sieve,  or  bolted,  as  it  is  sometimes  called. 
The  outer  husk  or  covering,  of  the  grains  of  wheat,  makes, 
when  ground,  a  substance  called  bran.  In  the  unbolted  flour 
this  bran  is  retained ;  in  the  bolted  it  is  not.  Many  persons 
who  are  not  strong  and  well  find  the  brown  bread  more 
healthy  for  them. 

4.  "In  order  to  make  briead,  the  flour  is  mixed  with  water, 
in  which  state  it  is  called  dough.  It  has  to  be  kneaded,  or 
stirred  about,  for  a  considerable  time,  in  order  to  make  the 
water  and  the  flour  blend  together  perfectly.  Then  yeast  is 
put  into  the  dough,  which  makes  it  rise,  or  swell. 

5.  "When  you  cut  a  slice  of  bread,  you  will  notice  that  it 
is  porous,  or  full  of  little  holes.  This  is  owing  to  the  effect 
produced  by  the  yeast.  When  it  is  sufficiently  risen,  it  is  put 
into  an  oven  and  baked. 

6.  "Yeast  is  a  liquid,  frothy  substance,  commonly  made 
from  hops,  and  obtained  from  brewers  who  make  beer.  But 
there  are  other  ways  of  procuring  it,  and  there  arc  other  sub- 
stances that  produce  the  same  effect.  In  what  manner  the 
y'3ast  acts  upon  the  bread  so  as  to  make  it  rise,  I  could  not 
explain  to  you  without  using  many  hard  words,  which  would 
go  into  one  of  your  little  ears  and  out  of  the  other. 

7.  "When  you  are  older,  and  study  chemistry,  you  will  un- 
derstand it.  Dough  which  has  been  mixed  with  yeast  is  called 
leaven,  a  word  sometimes  used  in  the  Bible.  Unleavened  bread 
means  bread  which  has  not  had  any  yeast,  or  leaven,  put  into  it. 
At  times,  the  Jews  were  required  to  eat  only  unleavened  bread." 

8.  "But  mother,  is  not  bread  sometimes  made  of  other 
things  than  wheat  ?  I  have  eaten  at  grandfather's  a  kind  of 
bread  which  is  called  rye  and  Indian  bread." 

21* 


M 


I  ' 


i     ! 


lifn 


>l    r 


274 


THE  TUJLKD  BEADEB. 


"  You  are  right,  my  dear.  Bread  is  sometimes  made  of 
rye,  of  barley,  of  oat^  and  of  Indian  corn.  The  bread  of 
which  you  speak  is  made  of  rye  flour  and  Indian  meal.  Rye 
is  a  grain  of  the  same  kind  as  wheat. 

9.  "  Indian  com  is  the  fruit  of  a  plant  which  we  call  by  the 
same  name,  and  is  also  termed  maize.  It  grows  in  the  form 
of  yellow  grains,  much  larger  than  those  of  >7heat,  which  are 
set  round  what  is  called  the  cob.  Rye  and  Indian  bread  is 
very  common  among  New  England  farmers. 

10.  "I  have  now  told  you  about  every  thing  we. have  had 
to  eat  for  our  breakfast,  except  the  milk  and  cream,  the  but- 
ter, the  baked  apples,  and  the  eggs.  Milk,  as  you  know,  is 
drawn  from  the  cow ;  you  have  often  seen  them  milk  the  cows 
at  your  grandfather's. 

"Butter  is  made  of  cream,  and  cream  comes  from  milk. 
Milk,  when  first  drawn  from  the  cow,  is  composed  of  two 
parts,  one  of  which  is  watery  and  sweet,  and  the  other  oily. 
After  it  has  been  allowed  to  stand  some  time,  the  cream  rises 
to  the  top. 

11.  "Thi^  is  the  oily  part  of  the  milk,  and  it  rises  because  it 
is  lighter  than  the  rest.  The  cream  is  taken  off,  or  skimmed 
from  the  top,  and  put  into  a  long,  round-staped  box,  called  a 
churn.  Here  it  is  shaken  and  stirred  by  a  handle,  and  in  a 
short  time  the  watery  particles  of  the  cream  separate  from 
those  which  are  oily.  The  watery  part  is  called  buttermilk, 
and  is  commonly  given  to  (.he  pigs;  the  oily  part  is  but- 
ter, and  is  given  to  good  little  boys  and  good  Uttle  girls, 
like  you. 

12.  "'IUhe  apple  is  a  fruit  which  grows  upon  a  tree,  and  is 
gathered  in  the  autumn.  A  collection  of  apple-trees  is  called 
an  orchard.  1l  ou  have  sometimes  been  into  your  grandfather's 
orchard  and  helped  to  pick  up  apples.  There  are  many  kinds 
of  apples ;  some  are  sweet  and  some  are  sour. 

13.  "Sweet  apples  are  commonly  used  for  baking,  and  sour 
ones  for  making  pies  The  apple  is  a  very  valuable  fruit,  and 
many  persons  in  our  country  support  themselves  by  raising  and 
selling  apples. 

"  Eggs  are  produced  of  laid,  by  hens.    Ton  know  how  fond 


i: 


BREAKFAST-TABLE  SCIENCE. 


275 


5   of 

iof 
Bye 

y  the 

form 

;h  are 

3ad  is 

re  had 
le  but- 
ttow,  is 
le  cows 

tt  milk, 
of  two 
ler  oUy. 
im  rises 

ecaase  it 
ikimmed 
called  a 
and  in  a 
i.te  from 
termilk, 
is  but- 
tle girls, 


t 


se,  and  is 
is  called 
,ndfather'8 
any  kinds 

and  sour 

fruit,  and 

•ajsing  and 

n  bow  fond 


you  are  of  going  into  your  grandfather's  barn,  and  looking  for 
eggs.  All  kinds  of  birds  lay  eggs,  and  they  are  of  various 
sizes. 

14.  "An  ostrich's  egg  is  as  big  as  your  head,  raid  a  hum- 
ming-bird's egg  is  no  bigger  than  a  pea. 

"  An  Qgg  is  a  wonderful  thing,  though  it  is  so  common.  It 
contains  a  germ,  or  principle,  of  life ;  that  is,  something  which 
may  hereafter  become  alive.  When  you  break  open  the  egg 
of  a  hen,  you  find  a  yellow,  thick  liquid  in  the  middle,  called 
the  yolk,  and  around  it  a  white,  sticky  liquor,  which  is  called 
the  white. 

15.  "There  is  nothing  here  which  looks  like  bones,  or 
feathers,  or  flesh.  Bui  if  it  be  left  in  the  nest,  and  the  hen 
sit  upon  it  a  number  of  days,  the  warmth  of  her  body  hatches 
it,  and  turns  it  into  a  chicken,  which  breaks  the  shell,  and 
runs  about,  and  's  a  living  creature. 

*'  This  is  the  sa.ne  with  all  kinds  of  fowls  and  birds.  That 
tall  turkey  at  your  grandfather's,  which  so  frightened  you 
when  you  were  a  little  girl,  was  once  an  egg  ;  and  so  was  that 
magnificent  eagle  that  I  showed  you  last  summer  at  the  White 
Mountains. 

1(5.  "This  property  of  the  egg  is  one  of  God's  wonderful 
works.  We  sometime  call  it  a  mystery ;  that  is,  it  is  some- 
thing that  we  cannot  understand.  We  do  not  know  how  it 
is  that  the  warmth  of  a  hen's  body  converts  an  egg  into  a 
chicken,  but  we  know  that  such  is  the  fact. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  Lucy,  look  round  the  table  and  see  if 
there  be  any  o'ojects  on  it  about  which  I  have  not  told  you." 

17.  "  Yes,  mother,  there  are  the  mats  and  the  salt-cellars." 
"  Very  true ;  and  I  am  glad  that  you  make  such  good  use 

of  your  eyes.  The  mat^  are  made  of  the  leaves  of  the  palm- 
tree.  These  are  dried,  cut  into  very  narrow  strips,  and  woven 
or  plaited.  Your  brother  Willy  in  the  summer  wears  a  straw 
hat  which  is  made  of  the  same  material.  The  palm-tree  grows 
in  Asia  and  Africa. 

18.  "  The  salt  cellars  are  made  of  glass.  Glass  is  made  of 
fine  sand  and  soda,  or  potash.  Potash  is  a  substance  obtained 
from  the  ashes  of  plants  and  vegetables.    The  materials  for 


876 


THE  THItU)  HEADER. 


i 


i  :l 


r-    ! 


forming  glass  are  put  into  large  pots,  and  melted,  until  it  be- 
comes a  red  hot  liquid  substance.  Then  the  workman  dips 
the  end  of  a  long  iron  tube  into  it,  and  takes  up  a  bit,  which 
he  first  rolls  on  a  polished  iron  plate,  to  make  it  smooth  on 
the  outside.  Then  he  blows  into  the  other  end  of  the  iron 
tube,  and  the  hot  glass  swells  and  expands,  and  it  is  shaped 
into  the  required  form.  In  this  way  bottles  and  decanters 
are  made. 

19.  "  Salt-cellars  and  other  things  of  the  kind  are  shaped 
in  a  mould.  The  finer  and  costlier  articles  of  glass  are  cut. 
This  is  done  by  grinding  the  surface  with  small  wheels  of  stone, 
metal,  or  wood.  The  glass  is  held  up  to  the  wheel.  A  small 
stream  of  water  is  kept  continually  running  on  the  glass,  to 
prevent  its  getting  too  hot.  Friction,  or  the  rubbing  of  one 
thing  against  another,  produces  heat. 

"  The  process  of  making  glass  is  very  curious,  and  the  arti- 
cles made  are  very  beautiful.  One  of  these  days  you  shall  go 
with  me  to  a  glass  manufactory. 

20.  "  Salt  is  formed  from  sea-water,  which  has,  as  you  know, 
a  salt  taste.    It  is  pumped  into  shallow  pans,  or  reservoirs, 

.  and  evaporated  by  the  heat  of  the  sun.  Water  is  said  to  be 
evaporated  when  it  is  dried  up,  or  taken  away,  by  the  air. 
The  water  in  time  passes  ofT,  and  leaves  the  salt  at  the  bot- 
tom.   This  is  afterwards  boiled,  skimmed,  purified,  and  dried. 

21.  "  In  many  parts  of  our  country  there  are  springs  of  salt- 
water, a  great  way  off  from  the  sea.  Salt  is  made  from  the 
water  of  these  springs  in  the  same  way  as  from  that  of  the 
sea.  Salt  is  a]«o  dug  out  of  the  earth,  in  a  solid  form,  in 
many  parts  of  tLo  woiid.     This  is  called  rock  salt. 

"Thus,  my  dear  Lucy,  I  have  told  you  all  about  the  break- 
fast-table, and  the  various  objects  upon  it.  I  hope  you  w  ill 
remember  it." 

22.  "  I  will  try  to  remember  it,  mother." 

"  And  now  I  want  to  make  one  or  two  remarks  upon  what 
we  have  been  talking  about.  I  wish  you  to  form  the  habit  of 
reflecting  as  well  as  of  observing  ;  that  is,  I  want  you  to  think 
about  what  you  see,  and  hear,  and  read.  You  will  notice  that 
the  articles  of  which  we  have  spoken  have  come  from  all  parts 


BBEAKFAST-TABLB  SCIENCE. 


277 


of  the  world.  The  tea  is  from  China,  the  coffee  from  Java, 
the  sugar  from  the  West  Indies,  the  mahogany  from  Hondu- 
ras, the  table-cloth  fVom  Europe. 

23.  "And  then  a  great  number  of  persons  have  helped  to 
prepare  our  breakfast,  and  our  breakfast-table  furniture,  for 
US.  The  iron  of  which  the  knives  are  made,  for  instance,  was 
first  dug  out  of  the  earth  by  miners ;  then  it  was  melted  in  a 
furnace  by  firemen ;  then  it  was  converted  into  steel  by  another 
set  of  workmen ;  then  the  steel  was  made  into  blades,  and  fit- 
ted into  the  handles  by  cutlers. 

24.  "  And  so  of  the  table-cloth.  First,  we  have  the  farm- 
er to  raise  the  flax,  the  workmen  to  prepare  it  to  be  manu- 
factured, the  men  and  the  machines  to  spin  and  weave  it,  and 
the  ship  and  the  sailors  to  bring  it  to  this  country.  Indeed, 
if  all  the  people  who  hav^  directly  and  indirectly  helped  to  get 
our  breakfast  for  as  were  brought  together,  they  would  form 
a  considerable  village. 

.25.  "This  is  one  of  the  advantages  of  living  in  what  in 
called  a  state  of  civilization;  that  is,  a  state  in  which  we 
have  laws,  and  books,  and  trades,  and  arts,  and  sciences,  agri- 
culture, commerce,  and  manufactures.  In  such  a  state  each 
works  for  all,  and  all  works  for  each.  Had  you  been  a  little 
Indian  girl,  your  breakfast  would  have  been  a  bit  of  broiled 
fish,  a  handful  of  parched  corn,  and  some  water  out  of  a 
gourd." 

26.  "Mother,  I  am  very  glad  I  am  not  a  little  Indian 
girl." 

"That  is  just  what  I  was  coming  to,  my  dear  child.  I 
want  you  to  be  not  only  glad,  but  grateful  to  God,  who  has 
caused  you  to  be  born  in  a  situation  where  you  enjoy  so  many 
blessings ;  where  you  can  have  convenient  and  comfortable 
clothing,  and  abundance  of  healthy  food,  and  schools  to  go  to, 
and  books  to  read." 

27.  "  And  a  dear  good  mother,  who  tells  me  every  thing  I 
want  to  know,"  said  Lucy. 

"  And  now  it  is  time,"  said  her  mother,  "  to  get  ready  to 
go  to  school.  I  hope  I  have  not  filled  your  little  head  so  full 
that  there  will  be  no  room  for  your  lessons." 


'!:A>*ff'f\<n^- 


W'"^ 

Hi 

n, 

I    ! 


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Ir' 


fir 


ii 


: 


ilteiialM|IMM1«1|iWi.<i  ma^iiiiTilSSff 


;     . 


278 


THE  THIBD  KEADEB. 


80.    Tired  of  Play. 

1.  rriRED  of  play  1  Tired  of  play  I 

J-  What  hast  thou  done  this  livelong  day  I 
The  birds  are  silent,  and  so  is  the  bee  ; 
The  eun  is  creeping  up  steeple  and  tree  ; 
The  doves  have  flown  to  the  sheltering  eaves, 
And  the  nests  are  dark  with  the  drooping  leaves ; 
Twilight  gathers,  the  day  is  done — 
How  hast  thou  spent  it — restless  one  1 

2.  Playing  ?     But  what  hast  thou  done  beside 
To  tell  thy  mother  at  eventide  ? 

What  promi&e  of  morn  is  left  unbroken  ? 
What  kind  word  to  thy  playmate  spoken  ? 
Whom  hast  thou  pitied,  and  whom  forgiven  ? 
How  with  thy  faults  has  duty  striven  ? 
What  hast  thou  laarn'd  by  field  and  hill, 
By  greenwood  path,  and  by  singing  rill? 


MELBOS^  ABBEY. 


279 


<£ 


3.  There  will  come  an  eve  to  a  longer  day, 
That  will  ISnd  thee  tired — but  nut  of  play ! 
And  thou  wilt  lean,  as  thou  leanest  now, 
With  drooping  limbs  and  aching  brow, 
And  wish  the  shadows  would  faster  creep, 
And  long  to  go  to  thy  quiet  sleep. 

4.  Well  were  it  then  if  thine  aclung  brow 
Were  as  free  from  sm  and  shame  as  now  I 
Well  for  thee  if  thy  lip  could  tell 

A  tale  like  this,  of  a  day  spent  well. 

6.  If  thine  open  hand  hath  relieved  distress — 
If  thy  pity  hath  sprung  to  wretchedness— 
If  thou  iiast  fbrgiven  the  sore  offence, 
And  humbled  thy  heart  with  penitence—- 
If  Nature's  voices  have  spoken  to  thee 
With  her  holy  meanings  eloquently — 

6.  I^  eveiy  creature  hath  won  thy  love, 

I'rom  the  creeping  worm  to  the  brooding  dove — 

If  never  a  sad,  low-spoken  word 

Hath  plead  with  thy  human  heart  unheard—- 

;     Then,  when  the  night  steals  on,  as  now, 
It  will  bring  relief  to  thy  aching  brow, 
And,  with  joy  and  peace  at  the  thought  of  rest, 
Thou  wilt  sink  to  sleep  on  thy  mother's  breast. 


'^ '  -  81.    Meleose  Abbey. 


ONE  of  the  most  interesting  remains  of  sacred  art  any« 
where  to  be  found,  is  the  ruined  abbey  of  Melrose,  in 
Scotland.  There  are  in  that  country  the  remains  of  four 
splendid  abbeys,  of  which  that  of  Melrose  is  perhaps  the 
most  beautiful.  It  is  on  many  accounts  most  attractive  to 
persons  of  cultivated  taste.  To  the  Christian,  too,  it  is 
interesting  as  a  glorious  memento  of  the  faith  and  piety  of 
by-gone  ages. 

2.  "  Melrose  Abbey,"  says  a  modem  writer,  "  is  indeed  a 
vast  and  beautiful  ruin.     No  person  can  help  admiring  it, 


;t  ' 


t. 


280 


THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 


whether  he  survey  it  narrowly,  or  contemplate  it  at  some 
distance ;  whether  he  examine  it  in  detail,  or  in  one  ct'mpre- 
hensive  view.  It  is  not  one  of  those  rude  edifices  which, 
when  seen  from  afar,  when  contrasted  with  some  neighboring 
object,  and  magnified  or  embellished  with  imagined  perfections, 
strike  the  eye  with  admiration  of  theu*  vastness  and  beaut" 
but  from  the  coarseness  of  their  materials,  or  the  ignorant . 
of  those  who  constructed  them,  sink  into  deformity  whi  ■. 
subjected  to  a  minute  and  critical  inspection. 


3.  It  is  impossible  to  view  it  fipom  any  quarter,  or  in  any 
direction,  without  perceiving-  it  to  be  a  most  admirable  speci- 
men of  the  architecture  of  former  times,  and  a  striking  monu- 
ment of  the  taste  of  the  builder,  as  well  as  of  the  piety  of  its 
founder.  It  pleases  alike  by  the  magnificence  of  its  plan  and 
the  exquisite  fineness  of  its  workmanship,  by  its  local  situation 
ard  the  interesting  associations  to  which  it  gives  rise. 

4.  He  who  can  view  the  abbey  of  Melrose  without  being 
highly  gratified,  has  neither  understanding  that  is  cultivated, 
nor  feelings  that  one  might  envy.  He  is  ruder  than  the  ground 
on  which  he  treads,  he  is  more  insensible  than  the  structure 
whose  beauties  he  cannot  see. 


CURING  THE  BLIND. 


281 


82.   CuiHNG  THE  Blind. 


A  POOR  blind  man,  having  learned  that  Jesus  was  passing 
along,  came  forth  to  meet  him,  and  cried  with  all  his 
strength:  "Jesus,  son  of  David,  have  mercy  on  me  I"  The 
disciples  would  have  driven  him  away ;  but  he  only  cried  the 
louder:  "Jesus,  son  of  David,  have  mercy  on  me!"  And 
Jesus,  having  him  brought  near,  asked  him:  "What  wilt  thou 
that  I  do  for  thee?" 

2.  "  Lord,  that  I  may  see  I "  replied  the  blind  man. 
"Receive  thy  sight,"  said  Jesus  to  him,  "thy  faith  hath 

made  thee  whole  " 

And  immediately  the  blind  man  opened  his  eyes  and  saw, 
and  he  followed  Jesus,  giving  thanks  to  God.  And  the  miil- 
titude  who  witnessed  this  prodigy,  also  joined  in  his  thanks- 
giving. 

3.  But  this  was  not  the  only  blind  man  to  whom  Jcsns 
gave  sight.  In  Jerusalem  he  met  one  who  had  been  blind 
from  his  birth.     His  disciples,  seeing  him,  asked:  "Master, 


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282 


THE  THIRD  READER. 


who  hath  sinned,  this  man  or  his  parents,  that  he  should  be 
bom  blind?" 

As  thongh  the  infirmities  wherewith  some  are  bom  were 
always  chastisements  from  Qod,  whereas  they  are  often  in- 
tended as  BjpedoX  graces  in  the  merdftil  des^^  of  Provi- 
dence. 

4.  The  Saviour  answered:  "Neither  hath  this  man  smned, 
nor  his  parenis;'^he  is  bom  blind  m  order  "that  the  works 
of  Ood  Qiay  be  made  mapifest  in  laiai.^  y. 

He  then  spat  upon  the  jptpiwd/  itt^  the  i^ittle, 

and  with  it  rnbbed  the  eyes  pf  1^0  l^faiid  nuui,  ttaying:  "Go 
wasb  in  the  pool  of  Sik)6.'V 

5.  This  was  a  publie  fowiMii  of  J^rnsatem^  ^e  man  went 
as  directed)  wash^  himseUy  and  re6ovc»r^  |^  $^t.  And  his 
frieitds  i^nd  acqtiiyptk^^  the 
same  man  whom  we  have  seen  sittmg  here;  biegpaig  t?  ;. 

**Ye8,^  he  reified,  "I  am  hie." 

6.  Apd  they  a«ked^  1^  c^  had  been  opened. 
And  he  told  them  :  "That  man  whio  is  called  Jesns,  made  clay 
with  his  spittle,  and  ,ani^nted^i^^/e;^c|s,i&ndi^^  'Go 
to  the  pool  of  Silo§  and  wash.'    1  went,  I  washed,  and  I  see.'' 

And  they  asked  him,  "Where  is  he?*'  ,  An^d  he  replied,  "I 
know  not." 

The  man  was  inmiediately  brought  to  the  Pharisees,  and  to 
them  he  related  how  Jesns  had  restored  his  sight. 

7.  Now,  it  was  on  the  Sabbath,  the  day  of  rest,  that  Jesns 
had  cured  hun;  and  the  Pharisees  were  embarrassed.  Some 
said :  "This  man  is  not  of  God,  who  keepeth  not  the  Sab> 
bath."  But  others  said :  "How  can  a  man  that  is  a  sinner 
do  such: miracles ?"  And  then  l^ey  asked  the  man  that  had 
been  blind :  "What  sayest  thou  of  this  man ?"  And  he  said : 
"  He  is  a  prophet,  a  man  sent  from  God," 

8.  Bat  the  Pharisees,  still  obstinate  in  their  incredulity, 
refused  to  believe  that  he  had  been  blind,  or  cured,, and  they 
questioned  his  family  on  the  subject.  Behold,  children,  how 
the  most  dazzling  miracles  of  the  Saviour  were  strictly  exam- 
ined, so  that  their  authenticity  was  clearly  established. 

9.  "Is  this  your  son,  whom  soiqc  say  was  bom  blmd?" 


THE  COUKi'RT  VBJUOiVffi  AIID  THE  ASS* 


283 


see.' 


said  the  Pharisees  to  the  parents  of  him  who  had  been  blind. 
"  How,  then,  doth  he  now  see?'* 

"Yes,"  said  they,  "he  is  oar  sen.  Hci  was  born  blind,  and 
he  now  sees.  Ask  himself  how  he  was  cared."  They  were, 
themselves,  afraid  to  tell  the  truth.  So  the  Pharisees  went 
again  and  interrogated  the  man  who  had  been  cared. 

10.  "  Give  glory  to  God,"  said  they,  "  we  know  that  this 
man  is  a  sinner." 

"  If  he  be  a  sinner,"  he  replied,  "  I  know  not.  One  thing  I 
know,  that,  whereas  I  was  blind,  I  now  see.  And  we  know 
that  God  doth  not  hear  sinners.  From  the  beginning  of  the 
world  it  hath  not  been  heard  that  any  man  hath  opened  the 
eyes  of  one  bom  blind.  Unless  this  man  were  of  God,  he 
could  not  do  the  things  that  he  hath  done." 

1 1 .  The  Pharisees,  being  angry  with  the  man,  exclaimed : 
"  Wretch,  thou  wast  wholly  born  in  sin,  and  dost  thou  teach 
us  ?  "  And  they  drove  him  from  their  presence.  Jesus,  having 
heard  of  this,  came  to  the  man,  and  said ;  "Dost  thou  believe 
in  the  Son  of  God?" 

And  he  answered :  "Who  ,i9;h,Q,  Lordj  that  I  may  believe 
in  him?"  f^rr 

And  Jesus  said :  "  It  is  he  who  talketh  with  thee."  Hear* 
ing  this,  the  man  fell  down  and  adored  him. 


Jesus 
Some 

Sab- 
sinner 
nthad 

said: 


Q3.   The  Country  FemiOWS  and  the  Ass. 


1. 


A  COUNTRY  fellow  and  his  son,  they  tell 
In  modem  fables,  had  an  ass  to  sell : 
For  this  intent  they  tum'd  it  out  to  play. 
And  fed  so  well,  that  by  the  destined  day. 
They  brought  the  creature  into  sleek  repair, 
And  drove  it  gently  to  a  neighboring  fair 


2.  As  they  were  joking  on,  a  rural  class 

Was  heard  to  say,  "  Look  1  look  there,  at  that 


1  >  I 


284  THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 

And  those  two  blockheads  trudging  on  each  side, 
That  have  not,  either  of  'em,  sense  to  ride ; 
Asses  all  three  1 "    And  thus  the  country  folks 
On  man  and  boy  began  to  cut  their  jokes. 

8.  Th'  old  fellow  minded  nothing  that  they  said, 
But  every  word  stuck  in  the  young  one's  head ; 
And  thus  began  their  comment  thereupon : 
"Ne'er  heed  'em,  lad."    "Nay,  father,  do  get  on." 
"Not  I,  indeed"    "Why  then  let  me,  I  pray." 
"Well  do ;  and  see  what  prating  tongues  will  say." 

4.  The  boy  was  mounted ;  and  they  had  not  got 
Much  further  on,  before  another  knot. 

Just  as  the.  ass  was  passing  by,  pad,  pad, 
Cried,  "  Oh  !  that  lazy  booby  of  a  lad  I 
How  unconcernedly  the  gaping  brute 
Lets  the  poor  aged  fellow  walk  afoot." 

5.  Down  came  the  son  on  hearing  this  account. 

And  begg'd,  and  pray'd,  and  made  his  father  mount : 

Till  a  third  party  on  a  further  stretch, 

"  See  1  see  I "  exclaimed,  "  that  old  hard-hearted  wretch  I 

How  like  a  justice  there  he  sits,  or  squire ; 

While  the  poor  lad  keeps  wading  through  the  mire." 

6.  "Stop,"  cried  the  lad,  still  vex'd  in  defe*       oind, 
"Stop,  father,  stop;  let  me  get  on  behind." 

This  done,  they  thought  they  ^-^rtainly  should  please. 
Escape  reproaches,  and  be  both  at  ease  ; 
For  having  tried  each  practicable  way. 
What  could  be  left  for  jokers  now  to  say  ? 

t.  Still  disappointed,  by  succeeding  tone, 

"  Hark  ye,  you  fellows  1    Is  that  ass  your  own  ? 
Get  off,  for  shame  I  or  one  of  you  at  least ! 
You  both  deserve  to  carry  the  poor  beast ! 
Ready  to  drop  down  dead  upon  the  road. 
With  such  a  huge  unconscionable  load." 


it: 
chl 


HE  FIBST  CBUSADE. 

8.  On  this  they  both  dismounted  ;  and,  some  say, 
Contrived  to  carry,  like  a  truss  of  hay, 

The  ass  between  'em  ;  prints,  they  add,  are  seen 
With  man  and  lad,  and  slinging  ass  between ; 
Others  omit  that  fancy  in  the  print, 
As  overstraining  an  ingenious  hint. 

9.  The  copy  that  we  follow,  says,  The  man 
Rubb'd  down  the  ass,  and  took  to  his  first  plan, 
Walk'd  to  the  fair,  and  sold  him,  got  his  price, 
And  gave  his  son  this  pertinent  advice : 

"Let  talkers  talk ;  stick  thou  to  what  is  best ; 
To  think  of  pleasing  all — is  all  a  jest.'' 


285 


84.   The  First  Obusade. 

PETER  the  Hermit,  the  preacher  of  the  first  crnsade,  was 
descended  from  a  noble  family  of  Picardy.  Having  made 
a  pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  Land,  one  day,  while  prostrated 
before  the  holy  sepulchre,  he  believed  that  he  heard  the 
voice  of  Christ,  which  said  to  him, — "  Peter,  arise  !  hasten 
to  proclaim  the  sufferings  of  my  people ;  it  is  time  th«t  my 


r"" 


I 


I 


286 


THE  THIRD  READEB. 


servants  should  receive  help,  and  that  the  holy  places  should 
be  delivered." 

2.  Full  of  the  spirit  of  these  words,  which  sounded  un- 
ceasingly in  his  ears,  and  charged  with  letters  from  the 
patriarch,  he  quitted  Palestine,  crossed  the  seas,  landed  on 
the  coast  of  Italy,  and  hastened  to  cast  himself  at  the  feet 
of  the  pope.  The  chair  of  St.  Peter  was  then  occupied  by 
Urban  II.,  who  had  been  the  disciple  and  confidant  of  both 
Gregory  and  Victor.  Urban  embraced  with  ardor  a  project 
which  had  been  entertained  by  his  predecessors ;  he  received 
Peter  as  a  prophet,  applauded  his  design,  and  bade  him  go 
forth  and  announce  the  approaching  deliverance  of  Jerusalem. 

Peter  the  Hermit  and  Kerbogha. 


3.  The  leaders  of  the  Christian  army  who  had  prepared 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  soldiers,  now  employed  themselves  in 
taking  advantage  of  it.  They  sent  deputies  to  the  general  of 
the  Saracens,  to  offer  him  either  a  smgle  combat  or  a  general 
battle.  Peter  the  Hermit,  who  had  evinced  more  enthusiasm 
than  any  other  person,  was  chosen  for  this  embassy. ! 

4.  Although  received  with  contempt  in  the  camp  of  the 
infidels,  he  delivered  himself  no  less  hali^tU^  ^nr  boldly. 
"The  princes  assembled  in  Antioeh^'^  said  Peter,  iwidressing 
the  Saracen  leaders,  "  have  sent  me  to  deib&iid  Jiistice  of  yon. 
These  provinces,  stained  with  the  feJood  of  jpiartyrs;  have 
belonged  to  Ghhsltian  nations,  and  atf  all  CfifHMiui  piB0|>le  are 
brothers,  we  are  conke  into  Asia  to  avei^^  the  im'iiries  of 
those  who  have  been  persecuted,  and  to  defeipui  the  heritage 
of  Christ  and  his  disciples. 

5.  "  Heaven  has  allowed  the  cities  of  Syria  to  foil  for  a  time 
into  the  power  of  infiidels,  in  order  to  chastise  the  offences  of 
his  people ;.  but  learn  that  the  vengeance  of  the  Most  High  is 
appeased ;  learn  that  the  tears  and  penitence  of  the  Christians 
have  turned  aside  t^e  sword  of  divine  justice,:  and  that  the 
God  of  armies  has  arisen  to  fight  on  our  side.  Nevertheless 
we  still  consent  to  speak  of  peace. 

6.  ''I  coqjore  yoo,  in  the  name  of  the  aUrpowerfiil  God,  to 


PETEB  THE  HEBMIT  ASD  EEBBOOHA. 


287 


hould 

d  un- 
Q  the 
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te  feet 
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if  both 
project 
eceived 
bim  go 
tisalem. 


)repared 
lelves  in 
neral  of 
L  general 
thusiasm 

;>  of  the 
boldly, 
tdressing 
5  of  you. 
T8,  have 
jople  are 
jtiries  of 
heritage 

for  a  time 
Jfences  of 
[t  High  is 
Christians 
that  the 
Ivertheless 

Ll  God,  to 


abandon  the  territory  of  Antioch  and  return  to  your  own 
country.  The  Christians  promise  you,  by  my  voice,  not  to 
molest  you  in  your  retreat.  We  will  even  put  up  prayers  for 
you  that  the  true  Qod  may  touch  your  hearts,  and  permit 
you  to  see  the  truth  of  our  faith.  If  Heaven  designs  to  listen 
to  us,  how  delightful  it  will  be  to  us  to  give  you  the  name  of 
brethren,  and  to  conclude  with  you  a  lasting  peace  1 

7.  "  But  if  you  are  not  willing  to  accept  either  the  blessings 
of  peace  or  the  benefits  of  the  Christian  religion,  let  the  fate 
of  battle  at  length  decide  the  justice  of  our  cause.  As  the 
Christians  will  not  be  taken  by  surprise,  and  as  they  are  not 
accustomed  to  steal  victories,  they  offer  you  the  choice  of 
combat." 

8.  When  finishing  his  discourse,  P«ter  fixed  his  eyes  upon 
the  leader  of  the  Saracens,  and  said,  "  Choose  from  among 
the  bravest  of  thy  army,  and  let  them  do  battle  with  an  equal 
number  of  the  Crusaders ;  fight  thyself  with  one  of  our  Chris- 
tian princes ;  or  give  the  signal  for  a  general  battle.  What- 
ever may  be  thy  choice,  thou  shalt  soon  learn  what  thy 
enemies  are,  and  thou  shalt  know  what  the  great  God  is 
whom  we  serve  I 

9.  K«rbogha,  who  knew  the  situation  of  the  Christians,  and 
who  was  not  aware  of  the  kind  of  succor  they  had  received 
in  their  distress,  was  much  surprised  at  such  language.  He 
remained  for  some  time  mute  with  astonishment  and  rage, 
but  at  length  said,  "Return  to  them  who  sent  you,  and  tell 
them.it  is  the  part  of  the  conquered  to  receive  conditions, 
and  not  to  dictate  them.  Miserable  vagabonds,  extenuated 
men,  phantoms  may  terrify  women ;  uut  the  warriors  of  Asia 
are  not  intimidated  by  vain, words. 

10.  "The  Christians  shall  soon  learn  that  the  land  wo  tread 
upon  belongs  to  us.  Nevertheless,  I  am  willing  to  entertain 
some  pity  fixr  them,  and  if  they  will  acknowledge  Mohammed,  I 
may  forget  that  this  city,  a  prey  to  famine,  is  already  in  my 
power ;  J  may  leave  it  in  their  hands,  and  give  them  arms, 
clothes,  bread,  women,  in  short,  all  that  they  have  not ;  for 
the  Koran  bids  us  pardon  all  who  submit  to  its  laws. 

11.  "  Bid  thy  companions  ^asiben,  and  on  this  rery  day  take 


■ 

1            1 

■     ! 

■1            1 

■      l' 

i 

; 

288 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


advantage  of  my  clemency ;  to-morrow  they  shall  only  leave 
Antioch  by  the  sword.  They  will  then  see  if  their  crucified 
God,  who  could  not  save  himself  from  the  cross,  can  save 
them  from  the  fate  which  is  prepared  for  them." 

12.  This  speech  was  loudly  applauded  by  the  Saracens, 
whose  fanaticism  it  rekindled.  Peter  wished  to  reply,  but  the 
Sultan  of  Mossoul,  placing  his  hand  upon  his  sword,  com- 
manded that  these  miserable  mendicants,  who  united  blindness 
with  insolence,  should  be  driven  away. 

13.  The  Christian  deputies  retired  in  haste,  and  were  in 
danger  of  losing  their  lives  several  times  while  passing  through 
the  army  of  the  infidels.  Peter  rendered  an  account  of  his 
mission  to  the  assembled  princes  and  barons ;  and  all  im- 
mediately prepared  for  battle.  The  heralds-at-arms  proceeded 
through  the  different  quarters  of  the  city,  and  battle  was 
promised  for  the  next  day  to  the  impatient  valor  of  the 
Crusaders. 


85.   The  Battle  op  Antioch. 

ALL  at  once  the  Saracens  commenced  the  attack  by  dis- 
charging a  cloud  of  arrows  and  then  rushing  on  the 
Crusaders,  uttering  barbarous  cries.  In  spite  of  their  im- 
petuous shock,  their  right  wing  was  soon  repulsed  and  pene- 
trated by  the  Christians. 

2.  Godfrey  met  with  greater  resistance  in  their  left  wing ; 
he  succeeded,  however,  in  breaking  it,  and  carrying  disorder 
among  their  ranks.  At  the  moment  that  the  troops  of 
Kerbogha  began  to  give  way,  the  Sultan  of  Nice,  who  had 
made  the  tour  of  the  mountain  and  returned  along  the  banks 
of  the  Orontes,  fell  with  impetuosity  upon  the  rear  of  the 
Christian  army,  and  threatened  destruction  to  the  body  of 
reserve  commanded  by  Bohemond. 

3.  The  Crusaders,  who  fought  on  foot,  could  not  resist  the 
first  charge  of  the  Saracen  cavalry.  Hugh  the  Great,  warned 
of  the  danger  of  Bohemond,  abandoned  the  pursuit  of  the 
fugitives^  and  hastened  to  t^e  suooor  of  the  body  of  rsserve. 


THE  BATTLB  OF  AMTIOOH. 


289 


leave 
ucified 
1  save 

racens, 
QQt  the 
d,  com- 
iindness 

were  in 
through 
t  of  his 
all  im- 
roceeded 
ittle  was 
:  of  the 


,k  by  dis- 
on  the 
their  im- 
and  pene- 


»g 


eft  wing ; 
g  chsorder 
troops  of 
!,  who  had 

the  banks 
ear  of  the 
;e  body  of 

t  resist  the 
eat,  warned 
suit  of  the 
of  rwerve. 


Then  the  battle  was  renewed  with  redonbled  fhry.  Kilicy 
Arslan,  who  had  to  avenge  the  shame  of  several  defeats,  as 
well  as  the  loss  of  his  states,  fought  like  a  lion  at  the  head  of 
his  troops.  A  squadron  of  three  thousand  Saracen  horse, 
clothed  in  steel  and  armed  with  clubs,  carried  disorder  and 
terror  through  the  ranks  of  the  Christians. 

4.  The  standard  of  the  Count  de  Yermandois  was  carried 
away,  and  retaken,  covered  with  the  blood  of  Crusaders  and 
infidels.  Godfirey  and  Tancred,  who  flew  to  the  assistance  of 
Hugh  and  Bohemond,  signalized  their  strength  and  valor  by 
the  death  of  a  great  many  Mussulmans. 

5.  The  Sultan  of  Nice,  whom  no  reverse  could  overcome, 
firmly  withstood  the  shock  of  the  Christians.  In  the  heat  of 
the  combat,  he  ordered  lighted  flax  to  be  thrown  among  the 
low  bushes  and  dried  grass  which  covered  the  plain.  Im- 
mediately a  blaze  arose  which  enveloped  the  Christians  in 
masses  of  flame  and  smoke.  Their  ranks  were  for  a  moment 
broken ;  they  could  no  longer  either  see  or  hear  their  leaders. 
The  Sultan  of  Nice  was  about  to  gather  the  fruits  of  his 
stratagem,  and  victory  was  on  the  point  of  escaping  from  the 
hands  of  the  Crusaders. 

6.  At  this  moment,  say  the  historians,  a  squadron  was 
seen  to  descend  from  the  summit  of  the  mountains,  preceded 
by  three  horsemen  clothed  in  white  and  covered  with  shining 
armor.  "Behold!"  cried  Bishop  Adhemar,  "the  heavenly 
succor  which  was  promised  to  yon.  Heaven  decKres  for  the 
Christians;  the  holy  martyrs,  George,  DemetritM,  and  The- 
odore, come  to  fight  for  yon."  Immediately  all  eyes  were 
turned  towards  the  celestUtl  legion.  A  new  ardor  inspired 
the  Christians,  who  were  pnrsuaded  that  God  himself  was 
coming  to  their  aid,  and  the  war^ry  "Mia  the  toiU  of  Ood  !" 
was  heard  as  at  the  beginmng  of  ^  the  battle. 

7.  The  women  and  children  who  had  remained  in  Antioch, 
and  were  collected  on  the  walls,  animated  the  courage  of  the 
Crusaders  by  their  cries  and  acclamations,  while  the  priests 
continued  to  raise  their  hands  towards  heaven,  and  returned 
thanks  to  God  by  songs  of  praise  and  thanksgiving  for  the 
saa'or  be  had  wnt  to  tiie  OhrlMteni. 

18 


290 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


1  ^U 


8.  Of  the  Cnisaders  tliemgelves  each  man  became  a  hero, 
and  nothing  could  stand  before  their  impetuous  charge.  In  a 
moment  the  ranks  of  the  Saracens  were  everywhere  broken, 
and  they  only  fought  in  confusion  and  disorder.  Tliey  cu- 
deuvored  to  rally  on  the  other  side  of  a  torrent  and  upon  an 
elevated  point,  whence  their  trumpets  and  clarions  resounded  ; 
but  the  Count  de  Yermandois  attacked  them  in  this  last  post, 
and  completely  routed  them.  They  had  now  no  safety  but  in 
flight,  and  the  banks  of  the  Orontes,  the  woods,  the  plains, 
the  mountains  were  covered  with  the  fugitives,  who  abandoned 
both  their  arms  and  their  baggage. 

9.  Kerboghi,  who  had  been  so  certain  of  victory  as  to 
have  announced  the  defeat  of  the  Christians  to  the  Caliph  of 
Bagdad  and  the  Sultan  of  Persia,  fled  towards  the  Euphrates, 
escorted  by  a  small  body  of  his  most  faithful  soldiers.  Several 
of  the  emirs  had  taken  to  flight  before  the  end  of  the  battle. 

10.  Tancred  and  some  others,  mounted  on  the  horses  of  the 
conquered  enemy,  pursued  till  nightfall  the  Sultans  of  Aleppo 
and  Damascus,  the  Emir  of  Jerusalem,  and  the  scattered 
wreck  of  the  Saracen  army.  The  conquerors  set  fire  to  the 
intrenchments  behmd  which  the  enemy's  infantry  had  sought 
refuge,  and  a  vast  number  of  Mussulmans  perished  in  the  flames. 

11.  According  to  the  account  of  several  contemporary  his- 
torians, the  infidels  left  a  hundred  thousand  dead  on  the  field 
of  battle.  Four  thousand  Crusaders  lost  their  lives  on  this 
glorious  day,  and  were  placed  auiong  the  ranks  of  the  martyrs. 

12.  The  Christians  found  abundance  beneath  the  tents  of 
their  enemies ;  fifteen  thousand  camels  and  a  great  number  of 
htHTses  fell  into  theur  hands.  As  they  passed  the  night  in  the 
camp  of  the  Saracens,  they  had  leisure  to  admire  tiie  luxury 
of  the  Orientals,  and  they  examined  with  the  greatest  surprise 
the  tent  of  the  King  of  Mossoul,  resplendent  with  gold  and 
precious  stones,  which,  divided  into  long  streets  flanked  by 
high  towers,  resembled  a  fortified  city.  They  e^mployed  several 
days  in  carrymg  the  spoils  into  Antioch.  The  booty  was 
immense,  and  every  Crusader,  according  to  the  remark  of 
Albert  d'Aix,  found  hunself  much  richer  than  he  was  when  he 
quitted  EurqKi. 


THE  YILLAQB  SCHOOLMASTER. 


291 


I  hero, 
In  a 

)rokc»», 
ley  ou- 
pon  an 
•uiKlcd ; 
tftt  post, 
J  but  in 
)  plains, 
andoned 

ry  as  to 

lalipb  of 

uphrates, 
Several 

,e  battle. 

sesof  the 

of  Aleppo 
scattered 

ire  to  the 

lad  sought 
the  flames. 

porsry  his- 
a  the  field 

ves  on  this 
he  martyrs, 
he  tents  of 
1  number  of 
night  in  the 
the  luxury 
;te8t  surprise 
th  gold  and 
I  flanked  by 
loyed  several 
e  booty  was 
5  remark  of 
wasTvhenhe 


86.    The  Village  Schoolmaster. 

BESIDE  yon  stragi^ling  fence  that  skirts  the  way 
With  bloflsom'd  furze  unprofitably  gay — 
There,  in  his  noLsy  mansion,  skill'd  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school ; 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stem  to  view, 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew ; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  leam'd  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face ; 
Full  well  they  langh'd  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  ciniling  round, 
Gonvey'd  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown'd— ^ 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or  if  severe  in  aught. 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village  ^11  declared  how  much  he  knew ; 
Twas  certain  he  eould  write  and  cipher  too ; 
Lands  he  could  nieasnre,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  guage. 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  own'd  his  skill. 
For  even  though  vanquish'd,  he  could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length,  and  thund'ring  sound 
Amazed  the  gaping  rustics  ranged  around — 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 
That  one  miiSl  head  xionld.  carry  all  h«  knhw. 


292 


THE  THIRD  HEADER. 


jf; 


fi 


U' 


87.    The  Rector  op  Guignen  and  his  Vicar. 

THE  rector  of  Guignen,  a  venerable  old  man,  and  his  carate, 
had  been  a  short  time  before  put  to  death  in  the  city  of 
Ronnes,  when  I  went  to  see  my  sister,  Madame  Junsions,  who 
lived  at  a  short  distance  from  Guignen;  she  related  to  me 
the  following  incidents  of  the  capture  of  these  two  victims : 

2.  They  had  been  warned  of  the  search  that  was  being  made 
for  them,  and  attempted  to  escape  through  the  fields,  when  they 
were  perceived  by  those  in  pursuit  of  them.  They  were,  how- 
ever, a  considerable  distance  ahead,  and  the  curate,  who  was 
much  the  youngest  and  more  active,  might  easily  have  escaped. 

3.  They  gained,  however,  upon  the  old  priest,  firing  their 
guns  at  him  as  they  pursued  him.  The  curate  had  crossed  a 
brook  and  ascended  the  opposite  bank,  and  was  out  of  the 
reach  of  his  pursuers,  when  looking  back  he  perceived  that  the 
aged  rector  was  unable  to  get  up  the  steep  ascent.  His  pur- 
suers were  shouting  with  joy  at  his  unavailing  efforts. 

4.  The  young  man  immediately  turned  back,  to  the  surprise 
of  the  soldiers,  who  could  not  but  admire  his  heroic  charity, 
and  endeavored  to  assist  the  good  old  parish  piiest.  He  de- 
scended the  bank,  recrossed  the  brook,  and  covering  him  with 
his  body,  strove  to  aid  hun  across.  But  he  was  unable  to  do 
so  before  the  soldiers  came  up  and  took  them  both  prisoners, 
to  be  led,  as  they  well  knew,  to  certain  death. 

5.  The  soldiers  stopped  at  my  sister's  house,  with  their 
prisoners,  on  their  way  to  the  city.  The  leader  of  the  party, 
the  infamous  and  dreaded  D ^n,  who  had  already  distin- 
guished himself  by  many  similar  captures,  and  was  a  man  of 
frightfdl  aspect  and  most  sanguinary  disposition,  told  my  sister 
the  circumstances  which  I  have  related  above,  with  some 
expressions  of  a  sort  of  admirfttion  and  pity,  the  more  striking 
from  the  mouth  of  such  a  monster. 

6.  '•  I  almost  regret,"  he  said,  "  that  such  a  brave  fellow 
will  have  to  be  put  to  death,  after  such  a  noble  action.  He 
was  quite  safe,  citizeness  {citoyenne),^  he  added.  "  We  had 
given  him  up,  but  wo  were  gaining  on  the  old  one,  when  lol 


THE  RECTOR  OF  GUIONEN  AND  HIS  VICAR. 


293 


I. 

irate, 
ty  of 
,  who 
;o  me 
is: 

made 
Qthey 
,  how- 
10  was 
«;aped. 
5  their 
ossed  a 
of  the 
hat  the 
lis  pur- 
surprise 
charity, 
Hede- 
lim  with 
le  to  do 
risoners, 


he  turned  back  and  came  to  help  him  cross  the  brook,  all  the 
time  covering  him  with  his  body  against  the  fire  of  our  guns. 


th  their 
party, 
y  distin- 
i  man  of 
niy  sister 
th  some 
striking 

ve  fellow 
ion.  He 
We  had 
whenlol 


It  was  a  remarkable  and  affecting  scene.*^  Tet,  as  soon  as 
they  had  got  some  refreshments,  they  hiirried  on  with  their 
prisoners  to  the  tribunal,  and  from  the  tribunal  they  went  the 
same  day  to  the  scaffold. 


UJ',;i^iiVfl;-,,;fti&(ffesi,,aV  ,,,^^,^_^__- 


£94 


THE  THIRD  HEADER. 


■ 


88.    The  Three  Homes. 

1.  TTTHERE  is  thy  home?"  I  ask'd  a  child, 
'  *    Who,  in  the  morning  air, 
Was  twining  flowers  most  sweet  and  wild 

In  garland  for  her  hair : 
"  My  home,"  the  happy  heart  replied, 

And  smiled  in  childish  glee, 
"  Is  on  the  sunny  mountain  side, 

Where  the  soft  winds  wander  free." 
Oh !  blessings  fall  on  artless  youth. 

And  all  its  rosy  hours, 
When  every  word  is  joy  and  truth, 

And  treasures  live  in  flowers  1 


i! 


;  I 


2.  "Where  is  thy  home?"  I  ask'd  of  one 

Who  bent  with  flushing  face, 
To  hear  a  warrior's  tender  tone 

In  the  wild  wood's  secret  place. 
She  spoke  not,  but  her  varying  cheek 

The  tale  might  well  impart ; 
The  home  of  her  young  spirit  meek 

Was  in  a  kindred  heart. 
Ah  I  souis  that  well  might  soar  above, 

To  earth  will  fondly  cling. 
And  build  their  hopes  on  human  love, 

That  light  and  fragile  thing  t 

8.  "Where  is  thy  home,  thou  lonely  man?" 

I  ask'd  a  pilgrim  gray,  "  !^ 

Who  came  with  furrow'd  brow,  and  wan, 

Slow  musing  on  his  way : 
He  paused,  and  with  a  solemn  mein 

Upturn'd  his  holy  eyes — 
"  The  land  I  seek  thou  ne'er  hast  seen, 

My  home  is  in  the  skies  1" 


^ 


r 


ST.  PETER  DEUVEBED  OUT  OP  PRISON.  295 

Oh  1  bless'd — thrice  bless*d,  the  heart  must  be 

To  whom  such  thoughts  are  given, 
That  walks  from  worldly  fetters  free — 

Its  oaly  home  in  heaven. 


: 


-ft 


89.    St.  Petbb  deuyered  out  of  Prison. 

THE  favorable  account  which  St.  Peter  gave  of  his  excup 
8ion  to  Csesarea,  very  soon  silenced  the  objections  of 
those  who  had  been  ready  to  find  fault;  the  faithful  were 
happy  to  see  the  Gentiles  thus  called  to  partake  with  them  in 
the  grace  of  eternal  life,  and  exceedingly  rejoiced  when  they 
were  likewise  informed  of  the  great  numbers  who  had  embraced 
the  fiiith  at  Antioch. 

2,  Barnabas,  a  good  man,  as  the  Scriptures  witness,  full  of 
faith  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  was  sent  thither  to  promote  the 
work  which  the  grace  of  God  had  so  happily  begun.     Upon 


l\ 


296 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


it; 


his  arrival  he  could  not  bat  rejoice  at  the  pleasing  prospect  of 
religion :  an  extensive  field  was  opened  to  his  zeall  the  harvest 
of  souls  was  very  great,  the  workmen  few.  He  encouraged 
them  to  persevere  in  the  happy  course  they  had  undertaken, 
and  went  to  Tarsus  in  quest  of  Saul. 

3.  He  found  him  and  brought  him  back  to  Antioch,  where 
they  employed  themselves  for  a  whole  year  in  the  service  of 
the  Lord ;  they  preached,  they  inst.ncted,  they  labored  with 
unwearied  zeal,  and  had  the.  consolation  to  see  their  labors 

:  jcrowned  with  success.  The  proselytes  they  made  were  very 
numerous,  and  each  one  vied  with  his  neighbor  in  the  study  of 
good  works :  then  and  there  it  was,  that  the  followers  of  Christ's 
doctrine  were  first  distinguished  by  the  name  of  Christians. 

4.  About  the  same  time  there  came  prophets  thither  from 
Jerusalem,  and  among  them  one  called  Agabus,  who  foretold 
a  great  famine.  The  Christians  yren  alarmed  at  the  prophecy, 
and  b^an  to  provide^  against  the  time  of  distress,  which  hap* 
pened  under  Claudius.  They  collected  considerable  sums, 
which  they  put  into  the  hands  of  Saul  and  Barnabas  for  thQt, 
relief  of  their  brethren  dwelling  in  Judea. 

6.  llie  church  of  Jerusalem  was  at  that  time  sorely  aggrieved 
by  a  persecution,  which  Herod,  at  the  instigation  c^  the  Jews, 
had  commenced  against  the  faithful ;  the  wicked  king  had  al* 
ready  slain  St.  James,  the  brother  oS  ^t.  John,  and  was  thiAl' 
meditating  the  death  of  St.  Peter.  Having  caused  him  to 
be  apprehended  during  the  Easter  time,  he  kept  him  in  prison 
under  a  strong  guard,  till  the  holydays  were  over,  when  he 
intended  to  bring  him  forth  to  the  people. 

6.  The  faithful  were  struck  with  dismay  at  this  disastrous 
event,  rightly  judging  that  the  welfare  of  the  flock  was  closely 
connected  with  that  of  the  pastor,  and  therefore  day  and 
night  did  they  send  up  their  most  fervent  prayers  to  heaven 
for  his  deliverance.  The  Almighty  graciously  heard  their 
petition,  and  delivered  his  Apostle  on  the  very  night  that 
preceded  his  intended  execution. 

T.  Bound  with  two  chains,  St.  Peter  lay  asleep  between  two 
soldiers  in  the  prison,  perfectly  resigned  within  himself  either 
to  life  or  death,  when  the  angel  of  the  Lord  came  with  great 


JT.  PETER  DELIVEBED  OUT  OP  PRISON* 


397 


brightness  to  the  place,  and  striking  him  on  the  side,  said,  "Arise 
quickly."  That  moment  the  chains  fell  off  from  the  Apostle's 
hands ;  he  speedily  arose,  put  on  his  sandals,  threw  his  garment 
round  him,  and  followed  the  angel  through  the  first  and  second 
ward,  till  they  came  to  the  iron  gate  which  led  to  the  city. 

8.  At  their  approach  the  gate  of  itself  flew  open,  and  they 
went  on  to  the  end  of  the  street,  where  the  angel  left  him. 
The  saint  then  came  to  himself,  for  hitherto  he  seemed  to  have 
been  in  a  dream,  and  said,  "Now  I  know  that  the  Lord  hath 
sent  his  angel,  and  delivered  me  from  the  hand  of  Herod,  and 
from  all  the  expectations  of  the  Jews."  Musing  on  the  event 
he  came  to  the  house  of  Mary,  the  mother  of  Mark,  and 
knocked  at  the  gate. 

9.  Many  of  the  faithful  were  there  met  to  pray ;  a  girl  called 
Rhode  hearing  some  one  knock,  went  to  hearken  at  the  door, 
and  immediately  knew  it  to  be  Peter's  voice ;  inst&ad  of  letting 
him  iu,  she  ran  back  in  a  transport  of  joy  to  acquaint  the  com- 
pany that  Peter  was  at  the  gate.  They  told  her  she  had  lost 
her  senses ;  but  she  positively  assured  them  that  so  it  was : 
still  they  would  not  believe  her,  and  said  it  was  his  angel  she 
had  heard. 

10.  Peter  in  the  mean  while  continued  knocking :  they  then 
went  to  the  door,  and  on  opening  it  saw  him,  and  were  aston- 
ished. He  beckoned  to  them  with  his  hand  not  to  say  a  word, 
silently  entered  into  the  house,  and  gave  them  an  account  of 
what  God  had  done  for  him.  When  he  had  finished  his 
narration,  he  desired  them  to  repeat  it  to  James  and  the  rest 
of  the  brethren,  and  hastened  immediately  out  of  the  city,  as 
|)rivately  as  he  could. 

1 1  The  wonderful  release  of  St.  Peter  out  of  prison  has 
been  thought  to  be  of  such  importance  to  the  Church,  that  she 
has  instituted  a  day  of  thanksgiving  to  God  on  that  account. 
She  then  experienced,  as  she  has  often  experienced  since,  that 
God  is  the  sovereign  disposer  of  all  things  here  below  ;  that 
he  sets  what  bounds  he  pleases  to  the  power  of  tyrants ;  that 
he  opens  or  shuts  prisons  at  his  nod,  and  makes  even  the 
passions  of  men  subservient  to  his  will,  in  the  execution  of  his 
unchangeable  decreed. 

18* 


'SK>«i'^ 


I 


I. 


k 

'V 


t    '! 


r- 


298 


THB  THIBD  BEADEB, 


90.   The  Hermit. 

1.  TpURN,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale, 

-L   Aud  guide  mj  lonely  way 
To  where  ybn  taper  cheers  the  vale 
With  hospitable  ray. 

2.  "For  here,  forlorn  and  lost,  I  tread 

With  fainting  steps  and  slow- — 
Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread. 
Seem  lengthening  as  I  go." 

8.  "  Forbear,  my  son,"  the  Hermit  cries, 
"  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom  ; 
For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 

'     To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

tobd 

4.  "  Here,  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 
My  door  is  open  still ; 
And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 
I  give  it  with  good  will.     .Ji^rji*  yiw.v9^usiia;;. 


POPE  LEO  THE  OBEAT  AMD  ATTILA. 

5.  "Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 

Whate'er  my  cell  bestows — 
My  rashy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 
My  blessbg  and  repose. 

6.  "  No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free 

To  slaughter  I  condemn — 
Taught  by  that  power  that  pities  me, 
I  learn  to  pity  them ; 

7.  "  But,  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side 

A  guiltless  feast  I  bring — 
A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fmits  supplied, 
And  water  from  the  spring. 

8.  "Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego  j 

All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong : 
Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 
Nor  wants  that  little  loner " 


299 


91.   Pope  Leo  the  Great  and  Attila. 

IN  the  year  450,  Attila  began  his  expedition  against  the 
Western  Empire.  With  an  immense  army,  he  set  off  from 
Hungary,  directing  his  course  through  Germany,  towards  the 
Lower  Rhine.  Large  swarms  of  adventurers  joined  him  upon 
the  march,  and  swelled  his  whole  force  to  half  a  million  of 
hardy  combatants.  Devastation,  plunder,  cruelty,  and  blood- 
shed, with  every  kind  of  outrage  that  can  be  dreaded  from 
armed  and  lawless  savages,  accompanied  the  march  of  Attila. 
He  bore  down  all  before  him :  Metz,  Triers,  Tongres,  Rheims, 
Cambrai,  and  all  the  towns  from  the  banks  of  the  Rhine  to 
the  very  centre  of  Gaul,  were  plundered,  burned,  or  laid  in 
ruins. 

2.  The  former  invaders  of  Gaul,  the  Goths,  Bnrgundians, 
Franks,  and  Alains,  then  saw  themselves  in  danger  of  losing 
their  new  possessions,  and  that  to  preserve  their  existence  it 


■tc>^attitt>' 


i 


i 


;l 


jfi' 


i 


300 


THE  THUU)  READER. 


was  necessary  to  imite  their  forces  against  the  common  ene- 
my. They  joined  the  Roman  standard  under  the  command 
of  ^tuis. 

3.  In  the  plains  of  Champagne,  near  Chalons,  the  two 
armies  met.  Pierce,  obstinate,  and  bloody  was  the  conflict. 
No  less  than  a  hundred  and  sixty-two  thousand  Huns  are 
said  to  have  fallen  in  that  memorable  battle,  fought  in  the 
year  451.  This  defeat  forced  Attila  to  quit  Gaul,  and  to  lead 
back  his  broken  troops  into  Hungary. 

4.  In  the  following  spring,  Attila  overran  Italy.  Meeting 
with  no  resistance,  he  ravaged  the  country  at  discretion,  re- 
duced several  of  the  fairest  towns  to  heaps  of  stones  and 
ashes ;  and,  to  finish  the  work  of  desolation  by  one  decisive 
stroke,  marched  against  Rome.  Rome  was  not  in  a  state  to 
resist.  Submissive  offers  and  negotiation  were  the  only  weap- 
ons she  had  to  ward  off  the  blow.  In  the  chair  of  St.  Peter 
was  seated  the  holy  and  eloquent  Leo,  the  successor  of  Sixtus 
III.,  who  had  succeeded  Celestine. 

5.  The  venerable  Pontiff,  moved  at  the  danger  that  threat- 
ened the  capital  of  the  empire,  generously  consented  to  put 
himself  uito  the  power  of  a  savage  Tartar,  and  to  expose  his 
life  for  the  public  safety.  Without  arms,  and  without  a 
guard,  relying  solely  on  the  protection  of  God,  who  guides 
the  hearts  of  kings,  he  went  to  treat  with  the  sanguinary 
monarch,  who  was  styled  the  scourge  of  God  and  the  terror 
of  mankind. 

6.  Contrary  to  expectation,  Attila  received  him  with  honor, 
listened  with  attention  to  his  pathetic  and  eloquent  harangue, 
and  for  once  suffered  the  natural  ferocity  of  his  temper  to  be 
softened  into  reason.  He  promised  peace  to  the  Romans, 
drew  off  his  troops,  and  evacuated  Italy. 

7.  Not  long  after  his  return  to  the  royal  village  which  he 
had  chosen  for  his  residence  in  Hungary,  upon  the  fertile 
banks  of  the  Danube,  he  burst  an  artery  in  his  sleep,  and  was 
suffocated  in  his  own  blood.  The  quarrels  that  divided  his 
sons  and  the  followers  of  his  standard,  dissolved  the  vast, 
unwieldy  empire  of  the  Huns,  which  had  extended  from  the 
Volga  to  the  Rhine. 


CHILDHOOD  OF  CHRIST. 


301 


92.   Childhood  of  Christ. 

¥HEN'  Herod  was  dead,  Joseph  brought  back  that  holy 
family  to  Nazareth,  in  Jadea.  It  was  there  that  Jesus 
lived  up  to  the  commencement  of  his  public  life.  "The  child," 
says  tiie  Gospel,  "  grew,  and  waxed  strong,  full  of  wisdom  : 
and  the  grace  of  God  was  in  him." 

2.  Is  he  not  adorable,  that  child  Jesus,  who,  filled  with 
wisdom  as  a  God,  but  subjecting  himself  to  the  condition  of 
humanity,  gradually  develops  himself,  and  hidden  in  Nazareth 
with  his  mother,  grows  also  in  wisdom  and  in  grace,  according 
as  he  grows  in  age,  awaiting  the  time  when,  as  a  full-grown 
man,  he  may  manifest  to  the  world  the  treasures  of  knowledge 
and  wisdom  which  are  in  him  1 

3.  And  you,  children,  like  the  divine  infant  Jesus,  do  you 
grow  and  strengthen,  but  grow  in  wisdom,  that  the  grace  of 
God  may  be  with  you.  0  childhood  !  charming  age  !  fairest 
of  all  ages  1  age  of  innocence  !  But  do  you  know,  children, 
what  innocence  is  ?     Listen :  an  innocent  child  is  a  little  an(;el 


^'Mmtf' 


302 


THB  THIBD  BEADEB. 


on  earth.  Look  in  that  spotless  nurror :  how  well  yonr  image 
is  reflected  I  Thus  the  heart  of  an  innocent  child  reflects  the 
image  of  God. 

4.  Behold  that  pore  and  limpid  stream  where  the  heavens 
are  mirrored,  and  the  twinkling  stars  I  Thns  is  God  mirrored 
in  the  heart  of  a  pure  and  innocent  child.  Behold  the  dazzling 
whiteness  of  the  lily,  and  mark  what  a  sweet,  fresh  perfume 
exhales  from  its  graceful  cup  !  So  is  innocence  the  perfume 
of  the  soul,  which  embalms  earth  and  heaven.  Behold  the 
snow  that  whitens  the  fields,  and  covers  them  in  the  dreary 
days  of  winter  with  a  mantle  of  surpassing  beauty  t  Thus 
innocence  is  the  beautifol  covering  of  the  soul-. 

5.  Oh  unhappy  day,  fatal  day,  when  a  child  first  loses  its 
innocence,-~lose8  it  foreyer?  Ob,  how  his  soul  is  disfigured ! 
Who  could  recognize  it?  The  foul  mirror  no  longer  reflecti 
your  image ;  the  troubled  stream  gives  back  no  longer  the 
azure  of  the  sky ;  the  withered  lily  hangs  its  faded  head,  with- 
out beauty  or  sweetness ;  the  white  snow  is  become  filthy  mud. 
A  pure  child  is,  as  we  said,  an  angel ;  but,  alas !  if  his  wings 
are  once  defiled  with  earthly  mire,  can  the  angel  still  fly  up  to 
heaven? 

6.  It  is  to  the  little  infant  Jesus,  children,  that  yon  must 
recommend  your  innocence,  praying  him,  at  the  same  time,  to 
give  you  a  portion  of  his  wisdom.  His  modesty  made  him 
conceal  his  treasures ;  but  he  one  day  manifested  them,  and 
then  even  the  wise  themselves  were  mute  with  astonishment. 


93.   The  Butterply^s  Ball,  and  the  Grasshopper's 

Feast. 


i 


1.  pOME  take  up  your  hats,  and  away  let  us  haste 
^  To  the  Butterfly's  ball  and  the  Grasshopper's  feast : 
The  trumpeter  Gad-fly  has  summoned  the  crew, 
And  the  revels  are  now  only  waiting  for  you. 


THE  BUTTEBFLT  AMD  ORA88HOPPEB.  803 

2.  On  the  smooth  shaven  grass,  by  the  side  of  a  wood, 
Beneath  a  broad  oak,  which  for  ages  had  stood, 
See  the  children  of  earth,  and  the  tenants  of  air. 
To  an  eyening's  amusement  together  repair. 

3.  And  there  came  the  Beetle,  so  blind  and  so  black, 
Who  carded  the  Emmet,  his  friend,  on  his  back ; 
And  there  came  the  Qnat  and  the  Dragon>fly  too. 
And  all  their  relations,  green,  orange,  and  blue ; 

4.  And  there  came  the  Moth,  with  her  plnmage  of  down, 
And  the  Hornet,  with  jacket  of  yellow  and  brown, 
Who  with  him  the  Wasp,  his  compuiion,  did  txring. 
But  they  promised,  that  eyening,  to  lay  by  their  sting ; 

5.  Then  ^e  sly  little  Dormouse  peeped  oat  of  his  hole, 

And  led  to  the  feast,  his  blind  coorin  the  Mole ;  . 

And  the  Snail,  with  her  horns  peeping  out  of  her  shell, 
Cam^,  fatigued  with  the  distaace,  the  length  of  an  ell ; 

6.  A  mushroom  the  table,  and  on  it  was  spread,  . 
A  water-dock  leaf,  which  their  table-cloth  made, 
The  yiands  were  various,  to  each  of  their  taste. 

And  the  Bee  brought  the  honey  to  sweeten  the  feast ; 

1.  With  steps  more  majestic  the  Snail  did  advance, 
And  he  promised  the  gazers  a  minuet  to  dance ; 
But  they  all  laugh'd  so  loud  that  he  drew  in  his  head, 
And  went,  in  his  own  little  chamber  to  bed ; 

8.  Then,  as  evening  gave  way  to  the  shadows  of  night. 
Their  watchman,  the  Glow-worm,  came  out  with  his  light, 
So  home  let  us  hasten,  while  yet  we  can  see ; 
For  no  watchman  is  waiting  for  you  or  for  me  1 


804 


THE  THIKD  BEADEB. 


94.   The  Ascension. 

OUR  blessed  Lord  remained  forty  days  upon  earth  after  his 
resurrection,  appearing  sometimes  to  all  his  Apostles  at 
once,  and  sometimes  only  to  some,  that  he  might  thereby  fully 
convince  them  of  his  being  risen,  and  wean  them  by  degrees 
from  his  corporeal  presence.  During  that  time,  he  instructed 
them  in  the  nature  and  the  use  of  those  spiritual  powers 
which  he  had  imparted  to  them  for  the  good  of  mankind. 
What  those  instructions  were  in  particular,  the  evangelists  do 
not  mention.  St.  Luke  in  general  terms  says,  that  he  spoke  to 
them  of  the  kingdom  of  God,  which,  according  to  St.  Gregory, 
is  his  Church  upon  earth. 

2.  St.  Matthew  and  St.  Mark  both  finish  their  Gospel  his- 
tory with  these  remarkable  words  of  our  blessed  Saviour  to 
his  Apostles,  saying,  "To  me  is  given  all  power  in  heaven  and 
on  earth ;  go  ye,  therefore,  teach  all  nations,  baptizing  them 


THB  AS0EN8I0N. 


305 


in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy 
Ghost.  He  who  shall  believe  and  be  baptized,  shall  be  saved  ; 
but  he  who  shall  not  believe,  shall  be  condemned.  Teach 
them,  therefore,  to  observe  every  thing  that  I  have  com- 
manded you ;  for,  behold,  1  am  always  with  yon,  even  to  the 
end  of  the  world.'' 

3.  Jesus  Christ  had  now  finished  the  work  for  which  he 
came  down  from  heaven  and  dwelt  among  us.  He  had  en- 
lightened the  world  by  his  doctrine,  and  redeemed  it  by  his 
death ;  by  his  miracles  he  had  confirmed  the  truth  of  his  re- 
vealed religion ;  he  had  established  his  Church,  which  he  com- 
mands all  to  hear ;  he  had  promised  to  assist  his  Church  with 
the  Spirit  of  Truth  to  the  end  of  ages ;  he  had  appointed  his 
vicar  as  a  universal  pastor,  to  preside  over  the  Church  in  his 
name,  and  to  feed  his  flock,  both  sheep  and  lambs,  in  his 
absence :  nothing  more  remained  than  to  take  possession  of 
that  seat  of  bliss,  which  he  had  merited  for  his  own  sacred 
humanity  and  us. 

4.  Therefore,  on  the  fortieth  day  after  his  resurrection  from 
the  dead,  he  led  his  disciples  forth  to  the  Mountain  of  Olives, 
near  Jerusalem;  he  there  gave  them  his  last  blessing  and 
raised  himself  from  the  earth  towards  heaven.  They  fixed 
their  eyes  upon  hun,  as  he  ascended  through  the  air,  till  an 
intervening  cloud  received  him  out  of  theur  sight.  By  his  own 
divine  power,  he  ascended  into  heaven,  where  he  sits  at  the 
right  hand  of  the  Father ;  being,  as  he  has  ever  been  and  shall 
ever  be,  the  same  consnbstantial  and  co-eternal  God  with  him 
and  the  Holy  Ghost  in  one  and  the  same  divine  nature.  The 
Apostles  kept  their  eyes  still  fixed  on  heaven,  ^hen  two  young 
men  in  white  apparal  came  and  asked  them  why  they  stood 
thus  gazing  at  the  heavens  :  the  Jesus  whom  you  have  seen 
taken  from  you  into  heaven,  said  they,  will  in  the  same  manner 
come  again  from  thence  to  judge  the  living  and  the  dead. 

5.  Trivial  is  the  pomp  of  this  vain  world  to  a  devout  and 
fervent  Christian,  when  he  contemplates  the  glory  of  Jesus 
Christ,  and  considers  the  never-ending  happiness  of  the  citizens 
of  heaven.  Heaven  is  the  object  on  which  we  ought  to  turn 
our  eyes ;  thither  ought  our  hearts  and  wishes  to  aspire^ 


306 


THE  THIRD  READEB. 


We  never  should  forget,  that  the  country  to  which  we  belong, 
that  the  bread  which  nourishes  our  souls,  that  the  g^^ce 
which  supports  our  virtues,  that  the  happiness  which  we  hope 
to  partake  of,  and  the  Head  of  which  we  are  members,  is  in 
heaven. 

6.  The  spiritual  treasures  which  we  here  e^joy,  and  the 
temporal  advantages  which  we  receive  from  creatures,  are 
appointed  us  by  Almighty  God,  as  helps  towards  our  last 
end.  It  was  to  open  us  an  entrance  into  heaven  that  Christ 
shed  his  blood ;  it  was  to  draw  our  hearts  thither  that  he 
ascended  before  the  last  day.  The  heavenly  princes  were 
commanded  to  lift  up  theur  eternal  gates,  and  the  King  of 
glory,  the  Lord  of  powers,  entered  into  his  kingdom,  which 
he  had  acquired  by  his  sufferings  and  death. 


95.    The  Tbavelleb. 

1.  Tp'EN  now,  where  Alpiae  solitudes  ascend, 
J-^  I  sit  me  down  a  pensive  hour'  to  spend  ; 
And  placed  on  high,  above  the  storm's  career. 
Look  downward  where  a  hundred  realms  appear — 
Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains  extending  wide, 

The  pomp  of  king^,  the  shepherd's  humbler  pride. 

2.  When  thus  creation's  charms  around  combme. 
Amidst  the  store  should  thankless  pride  repine  ? 
Say,  should  the  philosophic  mind  disd'<iin 

That  good  which  makes  each  humbler  boscM  vair  ? 

3.  Let  school-taught  pride  dissemble  all  it  can, 
These  little  things  are  gre&t  to  little  man ; 
And  wiser  he  whose  sympathetic  mind 
Exl'U<}  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 

4.  Yc  flittering  towns  with  wealth  and  splendor  crown'd  ; 
Yo  liel'''.  .''here  fji.mmer  spreads  profusion  round  • 

Ye  klies  whose  v>;ssels  catch  the  busy  gale  ; 
Ye  bending  swains  that  dress  the  flowery  vale ; 


/ 


THE  MOORIBU  WARS  IN  SPAIN. 


307 


slonp, 

gr:>.ce 
bopo 
is  in 


the 
are 


1 

r  last 
Christ 
lat  he 
were 
Qg  of 
which 


For  mo  your  tributa  y    'ores  ci>rabino  ; 
Creation's  heir,  the  world,  the  wnrld  is  miQe  t 


6.  As  some  lone  miser,  visiting  his  store, 

Bends  at  bis  treasure,  counts,  recoants  it  o'er ; 

Hoards  after  boards  his  rising  raptures  fill. 

Yet  still  he  sighs,  for  hoards  are  wanting  still : 

Thus  to  my  breast  alternate  passions  rise, 

Pleased  with  each  good  that  Heaven  to  man  supplies, 

Yet  oft  a  sigh  prevails,  and  sorrows  fall, 

To  see  the  hoard  of  human  bliss  so  small ; 

And  oft  I  wish,  amidst  the  scene,  to  find 

Some  spot  to  real  happiness  consign'd. 

Where  my  worn  soul,  each  wandering  hope  at  rest, 

May  gather  bliss,  to  see  my  fellows  blest. 


Hi 


96.    The  Moorish  Wars  in  Spain. 

THE  hist4)ry  of  Europe  presents  no  pages  of  greater  interest 
than  thuiti  which  record  the  gallant  stru^le  made  by  the 
Spanish  nation  to  throw  off  the  galling  yoke  of  the  infidfil 


308 


THE  THIBD  BEAOEB. 


Moors  from  Africa,  who  had  overrun  their  fair  country  and 
reduced  the  Christian  inhabitants  of  many  of  its  provinces  to 
a  state  of  abject  slavery. 

2.  They  had  possession  of  the  entu'e  province  of  Granada, 
one  of  the  fairest  and  most  fertile  portions  of  Spain,  and  in 
its  ancient  capital  they  had  established  their  seat  of  empire. 


The  palace  of  the  Moorish  kings  of  Granada,  called  the  Alham- 
bra,  is  still  to  be  seen  in  a  ruined  state  in  the  neighborhood  of 
that  city,  and  appears  to  have  been  one  of  the  most  magnifi* 
cent  buildings  ever  erected  for  a  royal  dwelling. 

3.  But  at  length  the  Christian  princes  of  Spain  succeeded 
in  conquering  those  rich  and  powerful  Moors,  whose  cruelty 
can  hardly  be  told  in  words.  The  honor  of  that  great  triumph 
was  reserved  for  King  Ferdinand  and  Queen  Isabella  his  wife, 


ntry  and 
ivinces  to 

Granada, 
n,  and  in 
)f  empire. 


THE  MONKS  OP  OLD. 


309 


and  when  they  had  succeeded  in  wresting  Granada  from  the 
infidels,  they  re-established  the  true  faith,  and  restored  to  their 
rightful  owners  the  churches,  so  long  desecrated  by  Moham- 
medan worship. 

4.  There  was  then  in  Spain  an  illustrious  nobleman  named 
Alonzo  d'Aguilar,  distinguished  as  much  for  his  eminent  vir- 
tues and  great  valor  as  for  his  high  rank.  He  it  was  whom 
the  queen  intrusted  with  the  final  overthrow  of  the  Moors  and 
their  expulsion  from  Spain.  Thousands  immediately  flocked 
to  his  standard,  and  the  greatest  enthusiasm  prevailed. 

5.  The  Archbishop  of  Granada  blessed  the  banners  of  the 
Christian  army  in  his  cathedral,  after  offering  up  the  holy 
sacrifice  of  the  mass  for  the  success  of  this  new  crusade.  Fer- 
dinand was  in  another  portion  of  their  dominions  at  the  time, 
but  the  queen  and  all  her  court  were  present.  The  queen  her- 
self placed  the  banner  in  Alonzo's  hand,  and  charged  him  to 
defend  it  with  his  life.  The  noble  and  pious  knight  promised 
to  do  so,  and  he  kept  his  word. 


97.   The  Monks  of  Old. 


1.  T  ENVY  them,  those  monks  of  old. 


Their  books  they  read,  and  their  beads  they  told ; 
To  human  softness  dead  and  cold. 

And  alllife's vanity. 


the  Alham- 

thborhoodof 

lost  magnifi' 

Biin  succeeded 
irhose  cruelty 
^reat  triumph 
bella  his  wife, 


2.  They  dwelt  like  shadows  on  the  earth, 
Free  from  the  penalties  of  birth, 
Nor  let  one  feeling  venture  forth. 

But  charity. 


.'C"*"-' 


3.  I  envy  them  ;  their  cloister'd  hearts 
Knew  not  the  bitter  pang  that  partg 
Beings  that  all  affection's  arts 

Had  linked  in  unitjv 


'  .." 


m 


310  THE  THIRD  READER. 

4.  The  tomb  to  them  was  not  a  place 
To  drown  the  best-loved  of  their  race, 
And  blot  out  each  sweet  memory's  trace 

In  dull  obscurity. 

5.  To  them  it  was  the  calmest  bed 
That  rests  the  aching  human  head  : 
They  look'd  with  envy  on  the  dead, 

And  not  with  agony. 

6.  No  bonds  they  felt,  no  ties  they  broke. 
No  music  of  the  heart  they  woke, 
When  one  brief  moment  it  had  spoke. 

To  lose  it  suddenly. 

1.  Peaceful  they  lived, — peaceful  they  died  j 
And  those  that  did  their  fate  abide 
Saw  Brothers  wither  by  their  side 

In  all  tranquillity. 

8.  They  loved  not,  dream'd  not, — ^for  their  sphere 
Held  not  joy's  visions ;  but  the  tear 

Of  broken  hope,  of  anxious  fear, 

Was  not  theur  misery. 

9.  I  envy  them,  those  monks  of  old, 
And  when  their  statues  I  behold, 
Carved  in  the  marble,  calm  and  cold. 

How  true  an  effigy  1 

10.  I  wish  my  heart  as  calm  and  still 

To  beams  that  fleet,  and  blasts  that  chill. 
And  pangs  that  pay  joy's  spendthrift  ill 

With  bitter  usury. 


•/ 


-Wa@?§5 


^©iM^ 


THE  SAGBED  PIOTURES. 


8U 


v:. 


y. 


98.   The  Saobed  Pictubes. 

AYALIANT  knigbt,  named  Hildebrand,  had  been  deeply 
injured  and  offended  by  Bruno,  another  knight.  Anger 
burned  in  his  heart ;  and  he  could  hardly  await  the  day  to 
take  bloody  revenge  on  his  enemy.  He  passed  a  sleepless 
^night ;  and  at  dawn  of  day  he  girded  on  his  sword,  and  sallied 
forth  at  once  to  meet  his  enemy.  But  as  it  was  very  early,  he 
entered  a  chapel  by  the  way-side,  and  sat  down  and  looked  at 
the  sacred  pictures  which  were  suspended  on  the  walls,  lit  up 
by  the  rays  of  the  morning  sun. 

2.  There  were  three  pictures.  The  first  represented  our 
Saviour  ih  the  pmple  robe  of  scorn,  before  Pilate  and  Herod, 
and  bore  the  inscription :  "When  he  was  reviled,  he  reviled 
not  again.''  The  second  picture  showed  the  scourging  of  our 
Lord,  and  under  it  was  written  :  "  He  threatened  not  when 
he  suffered."  And  the  third  was  the  crucifixion,  with  these 
words :  "  Father,  forgive  them." 

3.  When  the  knight  had  seen  these  words,  he  knelt  down 
tfttd  prayed. 


812 


THE  THIBD  READER. 


Now,  when  he  left  the  chapel,  he  met  servants  coming  from 
Bruno,  who  said:  "We  seek  you.  Our  lord  demands  to 
speak  with  jou ;  he  is  dangerously  ill."  And  he  went  with 
them. 

When  Hildebrand  entered  the  hall  where  the  knight  lay, 
Bruno  said  :  "  Forgive  me  my  injustice.  Alas,  I  have  injured 
thee  deeply  I"  * 

4.  Then  the  other  said  kindly :  "My  brother,  t  have  noth- 
ing to  forgive  thee."  And  they  grasped  each  other's  hand, 
embraced  and  comforted  each  other,  and  parted  in  sincere 
amity. 

Then  the  light  of  evening  was  more  lovely  to  the  returning 
knight  than  the  light  of  the  morning  had  been. 


99.   Truth  in  Parentheses. 

1.  T  REALLY  take  it  very  kin^ 
J-  This  visit,  Mrs.  Skinner  1 

I  have  not  seen  you  such  an  age — 
(The  wretch  has  come  to  dinner  I) 

2.  "Your  daughters,  too,  what  loves  of  girls — 

What  heads  for  painters'  easels  ! 
Come  here  and  kiss  the  infant,  dears, — 
(And  give  it,  perhaps,  the  measles  I)    - 

8.  "Your  charming  boys  I  see  are  home 
From  Reverend  Mr.  Russel's  ; 
'Twas  very  kind  to  bring  them  both, — 
(What  boots  for  my  new  brussels  !) 

4.  "What  I  little  Clara  left  at  home? 

Well  now  I  call  that  shabby : 
_  I  should  have  loved  to  kiss  her  so, — 
(A  flabby,  dabby  babby  1) 

5.  "  And  Mr.  S.,  I  hope  he's  well, 

Ah  !  though  he  Uvea  so  handy, 


ng  from 
ands  to 
jnt  with 

ght  lay, 
3  injured 

ve  noth- 
r'a  hand, 
a  sincere 

returning 


JAPANESE  MARTYRS. 

He  never  now  drops  in  to  sup, — 
(The  better  for  our  brandy  !) 

6.  "  Gome,  take  a  seat — I  long  to  hear 
About  Matilda's  marriage ; 
You're  come  of  course  to  spend  the  day  I- 
(Thank  Heaven,  I  hear  the  carriage !) 

*l.  What !  must  you  go?  next  time  I  hope 
You'll  give  me  longer  measure ; 
Nay — I  shall  see  you  down  the  stairs— 
(With  most  uncommon  pleasure  I) 

8.  "Good-byl  good-byl  remember  all, 
Next  time  you'll  take  your  dinners ! 
(Now,  David,  mind  I'm  not  at  home 
In  future  to  the  Skinners !) 


313 


100.    Japanese  Marttrs. 

THE  martyrdom  of  Don  Simon,  a  Japanese  nobleman  and 
valiant  soldier,  was  full  of  a  noble  interest ;  he  was  con- 
demned to  be  beheaded :  when  the  tidings  were  brought  him  in 
the  evening,  he  put  on  his  best  robes,  as  if  he  had  been  going 
to  a  banquet ;  he  took  leave  of  his  mother,  his  wife,  add  family; 
they  wept  bitterly,  but  Agnes  would  not  be  comforted.  This 
beautiful  and  great  soul  fell  presently  on  her  knees,  praying 
him  to  cut  off  her  hair,  for  fear,  she  added,  "  that  if  I  chance 
to  survive  you,  the  world  may  think  I  have  a  mind  to  marry 
again." 

2.  He  told  her  that  after  his  death  she  was  free  to  take 
her  choice,  "  Oh,  my  lord,"  replied  Agnes,  "  I  vow,  in  the 
presence  of  God,  I  never  will  have  any  spouse  but  you."  He 
then  desired  his  three  cousins  to  be  called  in.  "  Am  I  not  a 
liappy  man,"  he  said,  "  to  die  a  martyr  for  Jesus  Christ?  what 
can  I  do  to  be  grateful  for  so  singular  a  favor?"    "  Pray  for 


,r 


314 


THE  THIRD  BEAOEB. 


US,  we  beseech  you,''  said  one  of  them,  "  when  you  come  to 
heaven,  that  we  may  partake  with  you  in  your  glory."  "  Pre- 
pare to  meet  me,"  he  replied,  "  for  it  will  not  be  long  before 
you  follow." 


3.  Having  foretold  them  what  soon  came  to  pass,  they 
all  fell  on  .their  knees,  the  mother,  the  wife,  and  "the  relatives 
reciting  aloud  the  Gonfiteur ;  this  done,  he  entertained  himself 
a  while  interiorly  with  God :  then  desiring  the  picture  of  our 
Saviour  to  be  brought,  they  walked  down  into  the  hall  where 
he  was  to  suffer,  each  bearing  a  crucifix  and  a  lighted  torch 
in  their  hands. 

4.  Many  now  gathering  around  him,  gave  way  to  their 
sorrow.  "Weep  not  for  me," said  the  martyr,  "for  this  is  the 
happiest  moment  of  my  whole  life  ; "  then  kneeling  down,  his 
head  was  struck  off  at  one  blow,  in  the  thirty-fifth  year  of  his 
age. 

Agnes  looked  at  the  scene,  pale  and  immovable  ;  she  then 
knelt,  and  gazed  on  the  face  for  some  time,  and  kissed  it,  and 


jme  to 
..  Pre- 
before 


h 


pass,  they 
e  relatives 
led  himself 
ure  of  our 
hall  where 
hted  torch 

ay  to  their 
this  is  the 
down,  his 
year  of  his 

e ;  she  then 
issedit,  and 


\ 


JAPANESE  MABTYBS. 


315 


bathed  it  with  her  tears.  "Oh  1  my  husband,  who  had  the 
honor  of  dying  for  Him  who  first  died  for  thee — oh  !  glorious 
martyr,  now  that  thou  reignest  with  God  in  heaven,  be  mind- 
ful of  thy  poor  desolate  wife,  and  call  her  to  thyself."  Her 
words  were  like  a  prediction. 

5.  An  intimate  friend  of  Simon,  of  the  name  of  Don  John, 
a  man  of  rank,  was  also  beheaded  ;  leaving  his  widow  Magda- 
lene, and  his  little  son  Lewis,  a  boy  about  seven  or  eight  years 
of  age.  In  the  course  of  a  few  days  they  were  all  called  upon 
to  follow  the  dead.  Four  crosses  were  eriected  at  the  place 
of  execution,  to  which  they  were  borne  in  palanquins.  The 
first  they  crucified  waS'the  mother  of  Don  Simon,  a  person  of 
heroic  resolution ;  the  next  was  the  Lady  Magdalene. 

6.  Her  own  torment  was  n()thing  to  what  she  endured  from 
that  of  the  little  Lewis,  whom  they  executed  in  her  sight. 
The  child,  seeing  them  tie  his  mother,  went  of  his  o^n  accord 
to  the  executioners,  praying  them  to  fasten  him  to  his  cross : 
"What,"  said  they,  "are  not  you  afraid  to  die?"  "No," 
replied  the  child,  "  I  fear  it  not ;  I  will  die  with  my  mother." 
Then  the  executioners  took  and  tied  him  to  his  cross,  that 
stood  right  over-against  that  of  Magdalene ;  but  drawing  the 
cords  too  tight,  he  gave  a  shriek.  Being  rdsed  aloft  in  the 
air,  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  his  mother,  and  she  hers  on  him. 
"  Son,"  said  she,  "  we  are  going  to  heaven ;  take  courage :  say 
Jesus,  Mary." 

T.  The  child  pronounced  them,  and  the  mother  repeated ; 
and  these,  their  last  words,  were  spoken  with  so  much  solem- 
nity and  sweetness,  that  all  wept  around.  After  they  had 
hung  in  this  manner  for  some  time,  one  of  the  executioners 
struck  at  him,  but  the  lance  slipping  on  one  side,  he  missed 
his  blow.  However,  if  he  spared  the  child,  it  is  certain  he 
pierced  the  mother  to  the  heart.  Fearing  that  he  might  be 
daunted  by  such  a  stroke,  she  called  to  him,  "Lewis,  take 
courage;  say,  Jesus,  Mary."  ^-»«  si.i.iasv  jiim^i  ,: 

8.  The  child  seemed  not  in  the  least  dismayed j  and  neither 
gave  a  shriek  nor  shed  a  tear,  but  waited  patiently  till  the 
executioner,  repeating  his  blow,  pierced  him  through.  The 
Japonian  crosses  have  a  seat  in  the  middle,  for  the  sufferer  to 


'-msm^' 


816 


THE  TUIBD  BEADEB. 


W '    i 


11    ''. 


P      I 


sit  on ;  instead  of  nailing  the  body,  they  bind  the  hands  and 
feet  with  cords,  and  place  an  iron  ring  about  the  neck  ;  that 
done,  the  cross  is  raised  alofb  in  the  air,  and  after  a  few  min- 
utes, the  executioners,  with  sharp  lances  fit  for  the  purpose, 
strike  right  at  the  heart  through  the  left  side.  By  this  means, 
the  sufferer  dies  aknost  in  an  instant  in  a  deluge^  of  his  own 
blood. 

There  was  now  only  remaining  the  ardent  and  beautiful 
Agnes,  whom  they  reserved  to  the  last ;  she  knelt  on  the 
bank,  and,  clasping  her  hands  on  her  breast,  blessed  God 
aloud  for  permitting  her  to  die  on  the  wood  of  the  cross, 
which  himself  had  sanctified  by  his  precious  death. 

9.  She  then  made  a  sign  for  the  officers  to  tie  her :  but  not 
a  man  approached  her,  all  were  so  overwhelmed  with  grief. 
She  called  to  them  again,  and  still  they  stood  immovable  like 
statues :  sh>3  then  extended  herself  in  the  best  manner  she 
could  on  the  cross.  Some  idolaters  that  were  present,  between 
the  hopes  of  a  reward  and  the  menaces  of  the  officers,  stepped 
up  and  bound  her  fast,  and  then  raised  her  aloft  in  the  air. 

10.  The  spectators,  seeing  a  person  of  her  quality,  so  deli- 
cate and  tender,  read;  to  suffer  for  no  other  crime  but  that 
of  being  true  and  faithful  to  her  Ood,  could  not  keep  from 
tears.  Some  wept  most  bitterly ;  others  again  covered  their 
faces,  and  were  not  able  to  look  up  at  such  a  spectacle,  which 
Wis  ready  to  tear  their  hearts  to  pieces. 

11.  In  the  mean  while  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  heaven,  and 
prayed  without  intermission,  in  expectation  of  the  fatal  blow ; 
but  not  one  offered  to  do  her  this  favor,  insomuch  that  the 
same  persons  that  bound  her  were  forced  to  take  up  the  exe- 
cutioners' lances,  and  do  the  office  for  them ;  but  being  quite 
inexperienced,  they  gave  her  blow  upon  blow  before  she  was 
dead. 

12.  The  lady  all  the  while  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  picture  of 
Christ,  upon  which  her  husband  had  gazed  so  fondly  before 
his  death,  and  which  she  held  in  her  hand.  Many  Christians 
forced  their  way  through  the  crowd,  and  without  regard  to 
the  soldiers'  threats,  dipped  their  handkerchiefs  in  the  blood, 

.and  cut  off  small  pieces  of  the  robes. 


PAIN  IN  A  PLEABUBE-BOAT. 


317 


and 
that 
min- 
pose, 
leans, 
I  own 

lutifal 

n  the 

i  God 

cross, 

mt  not 
I  grief, 
►le  like 
ler  she 
between 
stepped 
air. 

so  deli- 
ut  that 
p  from 
their 
which 

ren,  and 
blow ; 
hat  the 

le  exe- 
ng  quite 

she  was 

eture  of 
y  before 
hristians 
;gard  to 
blood, 


101.   Pain  in  a  Pleasxtbe-Boat. 

BOATMAK. 

Shove  off  there  I — ^ship  the  rudder.  Bill— cast  off !  she's  under 

way  I 

Mrs.  F. 

She's  under  what  ? — I  hope  she's  not !  good  gracious,  what  a 

spray  1 

Boatman. 

Run  out  the  jib,  and  rig  the  boom  1  keep  clear  of  those  two 
brigs ! 

Mrs.  P. 
I  hope  they  don't  intend  some  joke  by  running  of  their  rigs  I 

Boatman. 

Bill,  shift  them  bags  of  ballast  aft — she's  rather  out  of  trim  1 

Mrs.  F. 
Great  bags  of  stones  I  they're  pretty  things  to  help  a  boat  to 
swim. 

Boatman. 
The  wind  is  fresh — ^if  she  don't  scud,  it's  not  the  breeze's 
fault  1 

Mrs,  F. 
Wind  fredi,  indeed,  I  never  felt  the  air  so  fhll  of  salt  t 


8id 


THX  THIBD  BEADEB. 


Boatman. 
That  schooner,  Bill,  hurn^t  left  the  roads,  with  oranges  and 
nuts  I 

Mrs.  F. 
If  seas  have  roads,  they're  very  roogh — ^I  never  felt  snch  ruts  \ 

Boatman. 
It's  neap,  ye  see,  she's  heavy  lade,  and  couldn't  pass  the  bar. 

Mrs.  p. 

The  bar  I  what,  roads  with  turnpikes  too?  I  wonder  where 

they  arel 

Boatman. 

Ho  I  brig  ahoy  t  hard  up  t  hard  up !  that  lubber  cannot 
steer! 

Mrs.  F. 
Yes,  yes, — ;)iard  up  upon  a' rock  1    I  know  some  danger's 

<   near ! 
Gracioas,  there's  a  wave  i  its  coming  in  1  and  roaring  like  a 

bull  I 

Boatman. 

Nothing,  ma'am,  but  a  little  slop  I  go  large,  Bill !  keep  her 

fall  I 

Mrs.  F. 
What,  keep  her  full '  what  daring  work  !  when  fhll  she  must 
go  down  1 

Boatman. 
Why,  Bill,  it  lulls  I  ease  off  a  bit—it's  coming  off  the  town  I 
Steady  your  hekn  1  we'll  clear  the  JPint  I  lay  right  for  yonder 
pink ! 

Mrs.  F. 

Be  steady— ^ell,  I  hope  they  can  I  but  they've  got  a  pint  of 
drink  1 

Boatman. 
Bill,  give  that  sheet  another  haul — shell  fetch  it  up  this 
reach  ;:: 

■■      :  Mrs.  F.      ;  ..  •  .  ' 

I'm  getting  rather  pale,  I  know,  and  the/  see  it  by  that 

speech!  " 

I  wonder  what  it  Js,  bow,  biit-<n[  jiever  JqU  so.^ne^  1 


.-.»■■> 


B  and 

ruts! 

bar. 

where 

cannot 

ianger*8 
r  like  a 

eep  ber 

he  most 

town! 
yonder 

piat  of 

ap  this 

by  that 


PAIN  IN  A  FLEA0VRE-BOAT. 


81^ 


Boatman. 

Bill,  mind  yonr  luff— why  Bill,  I  say,  she's  yawing^kcep  her 

near  I 

Mrs.  F. 

Keep  near !  we're  going  further  off ;  the  land's  behind  our 

backs. 

Boatman. 

Be  easy,  ma'am,  it's  all  correct,  that's  only  cause  we  tacks ; 

We  shall  have  to  beat  about  a  bit, — Bill,  keep  her  out  to  sea. 

Mrs.  F. 

Beat  who  about  ?  keep  who  at  sea  ? — ^how  black  they  look  at 

me! 

Boatman. 

It's  veering  round — ^I  knew  it  would  I  off  with  her  head ! 
stand  by ! 

Mrs.  F. 
Off  with  her  head !  whose  ?  where  ?  what  with  ? — an  axe  I 
seem  to  spy. 

Boatman. 
She  cannot  keep  her  own  you  see  ;  we  shall  have  to  pull  her 
ra! 

Mrs.  F. 
They'll  drown  me,  and  take  all  I  have  !  my  life's  not  worth  a 
pin! 

Boatman. 
Look  out  yon  know,  be  ready,  Bill— just  when  she  takes  the 
sand ! 

Mrs;F 
The  sand — 0  Lord  I  to  stop  my  mouth  1  how  every  thing  is 
plann'd  I 

Boatman. 

The  handspike,  Bill — quick,  bear  a  hand !  now,  ma'am,  just 
step  a  shore. 

Mrs.  F. 
What !  ain't  I  going  to  be  kill'd — and  welter'd  in -my  gore  ? 
Well,  Heaven  be  praised  !  but  I'll  not  go  a  sailing  any  more. 


I 


.? 


r 


% 

I 


I  i 


320 


THS  THIBD  READER. 


102.  Flowers  for  the  Altar  ;  or,  Plat  and  Earnest. 

DRAMATIS  rCMONiB. 

HcLKN.  ten  yean  old.  Aokis,  seven  yean  old. 

Oswald,  nine  years  old.  Fathek  Doxinio. 

The  Gardener,  Miller,  ite. 

Scene  I. 

A  millHitream,  with  a  wefr,  down  which  the  water  mshes  towards  the  mill. 
AoMH  crosses  a  little  bridge,  listens,  and  then  searches  for  a  while  among 
the  sedges  on  the  bank.  At  length  she  ntters  an  exclamation  of  Joy,  and 
at  the  same  moment  a  beaatifal  bantam  hen  rashes  oat,  clacking. 

Agnes.  Five  eggs,  and  all  my  own  1  One  each,  for  papa, 
mamma,  Helen,  Oswald,  and  myself  I  Yet,  no ;  poor  old 
Kitty  Oliver  shall  have  this  one,  and  I  will  boil  it  for  her  in 
her  little  tin  sancepan.  O  sly  Bantam,  naughty  Bray^re,  to 
make  yonr  nest  in  such  an  ont-of-the-way  place  I  Had  I  not 
been  np  so  very  early  this  morning,  and  heard  yoor  "  Clack, 
clack  I '' yon  wonld  have  cheated  us  all. 

Hden  and  Oswald  call,  Agnes  1  Agnes  I 

Agnes.  They  are  coming  this  way,  and  calling  me.  I  will 
not  tell  them  of  my 'good  fortnne  antil  breakfast-time,  and 
then  it  will  be  sach  a  pleasant  sorprise.  They  will  all  won- 
der so  ^.o  see  Brayere's  eggs,  but  they  will  never  guess  where 
she  had  hidden  them. 

Enter  Helen  and  Oswald.    Aones  hastily  gathers  np  her  apron 

with  the  eggs. 

Oswald.  Agnes,  we  want  you.  We  have  invented  a  new 
game ;  and  while  we  are  planning  all  the  rules  and  the  meet- 
ing-places, and  so  on,  you  must  gather  some  sedges  for  us. 

Agnes.  What  can  you  want  with  sedges  ? 

OswfM.  What  is  that  to  you  ?  Tou  will  know  by  and  by 
when  play-time  comes  ;  so  lose  no  tune,  if  you  please,  but  do 
as  you  are  bid. 

Agnes.  In  a  minute.  Just  let  me  run  to  the  house  and 
back.    I  will  fly  as  fast  as  a  bird. 

Oswald.  Stuff  and  nonsense  I  Who  can  wait  for  you  ? 
Breakfast  will  be  ready  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  we  have 
invented  a  new  game,  I  tell  you ;  so  go  and  gather  the  sedges. 


LKNEST. 


d. 


FL0WIB8  lOB  TBI  ALTAB. 


821 


\m  the  mill* 
hile  amoDg 
of  Joy,  and 
ting. 

for  papa, 
poor  old 
'or  her  in 
rny^re,  to 
Sad  I  not 
I  "  Cluck, 


le.    I  will 

■time,  and, 

111  all  won- 


less 


where 


It  apron 


a  new 
the  meetr 
Ifor  us. 

|by  and  by 

but  do 

[house  and 

for  you? 
Id  we  have 
[the  sedges. 


Agtmt  [impk>ringly].  O  Oswald,  pray  let  me  take  what  I 
have  in  my  A\wtm  tu  ihf  house.  It  U  a  lecret;  yov  ibaU 
know  it  presently,  but  let  mc  go. 

OsuxUd.  I  know  what  it  is,  by  the  way  you  are  holding  up 
your  apron.  You  have  been  gathering  some  flowers  for  the 
altar,  and  wish  to  make  a  mystery  of  it ;  bat  there  would 
have  been  plenty  of  time  before  four  o'clock  to  gather  them, 
so  you  are  a  great  simpleton  to  do  it  so  early. 

Agnes  [aitide].  The  e^^  at  breakfast  will  set  him  right  in 
that  particular,  so  I  will  say  no  more  now,  but  run  for  it. 

She  tarns  qniokly,  and  runs  aa  fut  aa  she  oan.  OaWALD  pariuea,  over* 
takes,  rooghly  seizes  her  apron,  and  breaks  all  the  eggs.  Agnes  biirsts 
Into  tears. 

Helen.  0  Oswald  I  what  have  you  done  ?  Those  must  be 
Bruy^re's  eggs,  that  Agnes  has  been  hunting  for  for  more 
than  a  week ! 

Osuxdd.  Then  why  did  she  not  say  so  at  once  ?  I  suppose 
sbe  was  afraid  I  should  want  one  of  them  for  my  breakfast. 
Selfish  little  animal  1 

AoNia  sobs  violently,  bat  says  aothing. 

Helen.  Gome,  come,  Oswald,  do  not  he  unfair  to  Agnes. 
She  is  a  fretful  little  thing,  with  plenty  of  faults,  as  well  as 
some  of  her  neighbors,  but  she  is  not  a  greedy  child. 
AONSB  smiles,  and  looks  gratefully  at  Hilbn. 

Onwald.  In  that  case  it  is  a  pity  certainly  for  its  that  the 

eggs  are  broken,  and  a  greater  pity  to  cry  about  the  matter. 

IHe  sings] : 

"  Hampty  Dampty  sat  on  a  wall, 
Hampty  Dampty  had  a  greal  fall; 
Not  all  the  king's  horses  nor  all  the  king's  men 
Coald  set  Hampty  Dampty  op  again." 

Agnes  [laughing'].  That  is  very  true,  Oswald,  dear;  so  we 
will  think  no  more  of  our  Humpty  Dumpty's  misfortunes. 

She  runs  to  the  brook,  and  begins  to  gather  sedges. 

OsuxUd.  By  the  way,  those  sedges  are  not  quite  the  thing. 
Bring  me  the  tallest  flags  and  bulrushes  you  can  find :  pull 
them  up  close  to  the  root.  Every  one  must  be  as  tall  as 
yourself.       . 

14* 


-«^^s-a*a?&!i^j.^«^«w«^^ 


322 


THE  TUIBD  BEADEB. 


Agnes,  They  are  very  hard  to  break  off;  I  am  afraid  they 
will  cut  my  hands. 

Oswald.  Oh,  that  is  a  trifle.  Tou  must  pull  the  harder ; 
and  when  you  have  finished,  lay  them  in  a  bundle  at  the  door 
of  the  summer-house,  that  when  the  recretttion-hour  comee,  we 
may  begin  without  loss  of  time. 

Agnes,  I  wonder  what  the  play  is  to  be. 

Helen.  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it  at  breakfast-time. 

Oswald.  And  remember,  that  if  you  cry  at  every  word  that 
is  spoken,  and  if  you  complain  when  the  flags  cut  your  hands, 
you  will  never  make  one  in  our  game.  None  but  the  very 
bravest  of  the  brave  can  learn  to  play  with  us  at  that, 

Ezeant  Helen  and  Oswald;  manet  Aones,  who  gathers  flags  and  bnlnish* 
es,  anB  carries  them  to  the  summer-house.  She  performs  her  task  with 
much  perseverance  and  patience,  and  neyer  looks  at  her  bleeding  hands 
until  the  breakfast-bell  is  heard. 

Agnes.  There  is  the  bell  for  breakfast,  and  I  have  not 
gathered  my  flowers,  though  I  thought  of  them  the  last  thing 
at  night  and  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  W.ell,  well ; 
patience  was  my  virtue  for  yesterday's  practice,  and  it  cer- 
tainly was  not  much  tried :  I  must  keep  it  until  after  break- 
fast, and  then  choose  anoUier  for  to-day. 

She  dips  her  hands  into  the  stream  to  wash  them,  lays  her  bundle  at  the 
door  of  the  summer-house,  and  trips  gayly  homeward. 

Scene  II.  ^ 

A  flower  garden.    Enter  the  three  children. 

Agnes.  Oh,  yes,  it  will  be  lovely  I  To  walk  in  procession 
and  sing  the  litanies  with  flags  in  our  hands  to  look  like  palms  I 
Thank  you  again  and  again,  dear  Helen,  for  inventing  such  a 
sweet  play. 

0.nvald.  It  was  not  Helen  who  invented  it  j  it  was  I. 

Helen.  For  shame,  Oswald  ;  how  can  you  say  so  I 

O.iwald.  Well,  though  you  may  have  thought  of  it  first,  I 
put  your  thought  into  shape  for  you. 

AgneK.  Thank  you,  then,  dear  Oswald. 

Oswald  [to  Agnes].  Now,  mind,  we  only  allow  you  a 


FLOWEBS  FOB  THE  ALTAB. 


323 


lid  they 

harder ; 
the  door 
[>m0B,  we 


rord  that 
or  hands, 
the  very 
it. 

nd  bnlrosh- 
r  task  with 
iding  hands 

have  not 
last  thing 
iT.ell,  well ; 
Dd  it  cer- 
ter  break- 


indle  at  ths 
rd. 


procession 
ike  palms  I 
ting  sach  a 

ras  I. 

>1 

»f  it  first,  I 


low  you  a 


, 


quarter  of  an  hoar  to  gather  your  flowers ;  and  the  very 
moment  I  whistle,  you  must  come  and  join  us  in  the  forum. 

Agnen.  The  forum  I     What  is  that  ? 

Osuxdd.  Why  the  grass-plot,  to  be  sure,  stupid.  Do  you 
not  remember  that  the  summer-house  is  the  temple  of  Jupiter, 
where  the  martyrs  are  to  refuse  to  offer  sacrifice :  and  that 
the  weather-cock  is  the  Roman  eagle,  and  the  grass-plot  is — 

Agnes.  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  all  about  it  now  !  I  promise 
to  join  you  when  you  whistle  for  me  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

[Exeunt  Helen  and  Oswald. 

Agnes  [while  putting  on  her  garden-apron  and  gloves,  and 
taking  out  her  flower-shears].  Oh,  happy  day,  happy  day  1 
To  dress  our  Lady's  altar  with  my  own  roses,  all  my  own  1 
Thirteen  white  ones  that  I  counted  yesterday,  with  ever  so 
many  buds,  and  twenty-five  red  ones  ;  and  then  the  moss-rose 
tree,  that  seems  to  have  come  out  on  purpose  for  to-day,  it  is 
so  full  of  buds  I  How  beautiful  they  will  look  !  Our  Blessed 
Lady  shall  have  them  all — every  one ;  I  would  not  give  one 
to  anybody  else  to-day  for  the  world — unless,  perhaps, — [she 
pauses  a  moment,  and  then,  clapping  her  hands  together, 
adds  with  a  happy  smile  and  upward  glance]  no,  not  even  to 
Father  Dominic.  This  is  far  better  than  even  our  new  play : 
this  is  happiness,  while  that  is  only  pleasure  [she  looks 
thoughtful,  and  a  cloud  comes  over  her  countenance]. 

Father  Dominic  is  seen  approaching  with  his  breviary  in  his  hand. 

Agnes  [still  musing].  There  is  Father  Dominic.  I  would 
ask  him,  only  he  is  saying  his  office. 

Fatheb  DoMI^ao  crosses  the  path,  and,  without-speaking,  holds  out  his 
finger,  which  Aones  takes,  looking  up  in  his  face,  and  walking  beside 
him  for  a  few  minutes  in  silence. 

Falher  D.  [shuts  his  book  and  smiles  gently  at  Agnes], 
Well,  my  child,  what  is  it  you  are  wishing  to  say  to  me  ? 

Agnes  [aside].  How  is  it  he  knows  so  well  what  I  have  in 
my  thoughts  ?  [aloud]  Father,  is  theie  any  harm  in  playing 
at  martyrs  ? 

Father  D.  You  must  first  explain  to  me  a  little  what  sort 
of  a  game  that  is. 

Agnes.  W«  are  to  pretend  that  we  are  some  of  the  holy 


:rsM^.;.'<4,S34jWji 


824 


THE  THIBD  BEADER. 


saints  who  suffered  martjrcdom  under  the  empero.*  Diocletian. 
Oswald  is  to  be  the  pagan  tyrant ;  the  summer-house  is  to  be 
the  Roman  temple,  where  Helen  and  myself  are  to  refuse  to 
offer  sacrifice  to  Jupiter ;  and  then  we  are  to  walk  to  prison 
and  to  death  singing  the  Litanies,  with  make-belieye  palms  in 
our  hands. 

Father  D.  And  you  wish  to  know  ? — 

Agnes.  Whether  the  sufferings  of  the  saints  is  not  too  holy 
a  subject  to  be  turned  into  play  ? 

Father  D.  Tell  me,  my  child,  which  is  the  most  holy  occu- 
pation that  children  can  have  ? 

Agnes,  [after  thinking  a  while'].  Father,  you  hare  told  me 
that,  with  simpUcity  and  obedience,  every  occupation  is  holy 
to  a  little  child ;  so  that  play  in  play-time,  is  as  holy  as  study 
in  school-time,  or  even  as  meditation  itself.  k 

Father  D,  And  what  is  it  that  sanctifies  your  meditation, 
your  work,  and  your  play,  so  as  to  make  them  equally  accept- 
able to  our  Lord  ? 

Agnes.  The  constant  remembrance  of  his  adorable  presence. 

Fahter  D.  Go,  my  child,  to  your  play.  For  my  part,  I 
think  it  the  prettiest  I  have  heard  of  for  many  a  long  day,  and 
I  should  like  to  be  a  little  child  like  you  for  a  while  to  join  in 
it.  Though  your  palms  are  make-believe  cmes,  your  litanies 
are  real,  and  whenever  you  sing  them  your  angel  guardian  joins 
his  voice  with  yours.  Who  knows  but  that  our  Lord,  when 
he  sees  little  children  amusing  themselves  with  good  disposi- 
tions, may  bestow  on  them  in  reality  the  spirit  of  martyrdom  1 

Agnes.  Do  people  need  the  spirit  of  martyrdom  now,  when 
there  are  no  longer  any  heathen  emperors?  What  is  the 
spirit  of  martyrdom,  Father? 

Father  D.  [sighing].  Yes,  my  dear  child,  we  want  it  still, 
and  shall  do  so  to  the  end  of  the  world ;  but  if  you  ask  me 
what  it  is,  I  answer  it  is  a  gift  from  Heaven,  to  be  obtained, 
like  all  other  perfect  gifts,  by  asking  for  it.  Let  this  be  the 
virtue  you  choose  for  to-day  ;  pray  for  it,  my  dear  child,  and 
it  will  be  given  to  you  both  to  know  and  to  practise  it,  whether 
in  play-time  or  at  any  other  time,  should  the  occasion  be  given 
when  you  need  it ;  and  this  may  be  sooner  than  yon  think. 


FLQWEBS  FOB  THE  ALTAB. 


325 


:Ietiaii. 
J  to  be 
fuse  to 
prison 
ilms  in 


DO  holy 

ly  occtt- 

told  me 

is  holy 

Eis  study 


ditation, 
r  accept- 


1,1' 


T 


>r4sence. 

part,  I 
day,  and 
[)  join  in 
'  litanies 
ian  joins 
rd,  when 

disposi- 
tyrdom  I 
iw,  when 
X  is  the 

i  it  still, 

ask  me 

obtained, 

is  be  the 

kild,  and 

whether 

be  given 

hink. 


Agnes.  0  Father,  I  am  such  a  coward  I  I  am  afraid  of 
every  thing  and  ev^ybody ;  and  if  ever  so  slightly  hurt,  can 
scarcely  refrain  from  tears.  Oswald  says  he  would  make  the 
best  martyr  that  ever  was,  for  he  is  so  brave  that  he  does  not 
mind  pain  in  the  least,  and  never  cries  at  all.  Pray  for  me, 
that  I  may  be  as  brave  as  Oswald,  before  I  am  ever  required 
to  suffer,  lest  I  should  deny  my  Lord :  that  would  be  terrible  I 

A  whistle  is  heard.         ttiisrf  f.; 

Agnes.  Oh,  listen !  they  are  oalling  me  already.  What 
shall  I  do?  what  shall  I  do? 

Oswald  whistles  again,  and  Helen  caRs,  Agnes  1  Agnes  I 
we  are  waiting. 

Agnes  [tvringing  her  hands].  What  must  I  do?  I  prom- 
ised to  go  when  they  called,  and  I  have  not  gathered  my 
flowers.  i  iym%t  ms^  mid-^  ik  ■(  r    ' 

Father  D.  Keep  your  promise,  my  child,  at  all  risks :  bear 
a  disf^pointment  rather  than  break  a  promise. 

Agnes.  But  there  are  two  promises.  Father ;  and  one  of 
them  must  be  broken.  I  had  promised  our  Blessed  Lady  every 
rose  in  my  garden  for  this  feast,  and  that  I  would  say  a 
Memorare  before  they  were  gathered ;  and  now  the  only  time 
I  had  has  slipped  by.  This  was  my  first  promise,  and  my  best ; 
I  cannot  break  it. 

7%6t/ coZ/,  tmpa^t«n//y,  Agnes  [  Agnes  ! 

Father  D.  Give  me  your  basket,  my  child.  Offer  to  our 
Lord  every  little  good  action  as  a  flower  for  the  altar.  I  will 
gather  these  flowers  for  you,  and  ]eav6  them  in  the  summer- 
house;  while  you  go  down, the  lawn,  say  i)ii^  Memorare,  and 
I  will  say  it  at  the  same  time.    Will  that  do  ? 

Agnes  looks  gratefully  M  Father  Dominic,  kisses  his  hand,  and  walks 
quietly  down  the  lawn,  sJiying  her  little  prayer  with  rebollection.  When 
it  is  ended,'  she  nma  towards  the  sunuoer-houae,  olappipg  her  hands  with 
delight. 

SCENE  m. 

The  three  children  are  seen  comiag  out  of  the  sommer-honse.  Oswald  is 
dressed  as  a  Roman  lictor,  bearing  in  his  hand  an  axe  tied  in  a  bundle 
of  rods.  Helen  and  AdNEs  have  long  whit«  yelli,  and  each  weare  a 
paasion-llower  in  her  bososn. 


V  i;^S£-tT;  t™"*''  '^  **^ 


i\- 


i 

;  1 
j  j 

'■  i 

IB 

I'U 

m 

|l 

!:    1 

:| 

1    B, 

i  , 

1 

ijii   ; 

1 

(-  ' 

||]K 

9 
1 

■  v 

1 

326 


THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 


Osnoald  [fiercely].  Come  on,  wretches,  and  suffer  the  pun- 
ishment which  Osesar  so  justly  awards  to  your  crimes.  Thrice 
have  you  impiously  refused  to  sacrifice,  and  thrice  shall  you  be 
beaten  with  these,  rods  before  the  axe  closes  your  miserable  and 
detestable  lives.  In  the  mean  time,  thrice  shall  you  be  driven 
through  the  city  and  round  its  boundaries,  that  every  Roman 
may  behold  your  ignominy,  and  may  tremble  at  your  fate. 

He  drives  them  before  him  for  Bome  time,  and  then  stops  opposite  the 

Bommer-hoose. 

Oswald  to  Agnes.  Maiden,  your  tender  years  inspire  me 
with  some  compassion  for  your  folly :  only  bow  as  you  pass 
that  standard,  and  I  will  intercede  for  you  with  the  emperor. 

AoMES  walks  erect  past  the  sommer-hoose. 

Osuxdd.  Wilt  thou  not  bend? 
\  Agnes.  No. 

Helen  [pushing  her].  Yon  do  not  do  it  properly.  Make 
a  speech,  cannot  you?    Plain  ''no"  sounds  so  stupid. 

.Agnes.  I  do  not  know  what  else  to  say. 

Helen.  You  ought  to  make  a  grand  speech,  to  defy  the 
lictor,  and  abuse  the  emperor  and  the  gods  of  Rome.  You 
shall  hear  by  and  by  how  /  will  do  it. 

Oswald  [threatening  with  his  rod].  Once  for  all,  wilt  thou 
bow  to  the  standard  of  Rome,  to  the  royal  bird  of  Jupiter  ? 

Agnes.  Never  I 

Oswald.  Here  then  will  I  teach  thee  what  it  is  to  be  ob- 
stinate.    [He  strikes  her  somewhat  harder  than  he  intended.] 

The  Angel  gaardlan  of  Aonks  approaches  and  whispers  to  her  frequently 
during  this  scene  and  the  rest  of  the  drama.  TJie  words  of  the  Augei 
seem  to  AoNRa  thoughts,  for  she  does  not  see  the  Angel,  but  she  knows 
he  is  near,  and  speaks  to  him  also  in  thoughts. 

Angel.  Courage,  Agnes.  A  flower  for  the  altar  I 
Oinoald  to  Helen.  To  thee  also  is  mercy  for  the  last  time 
offered.  Disgrace  not  a  name  held  in  honor  throughout  the 
world,  that  of  a  Roman  matron ;  nor  afford  a  pretence  to  thy 
children  to  desert  the  holy  temples,  where  their  ancestors  wor- 
shipped, and  forsake  the  protecting  gods  of  their  hearths  and 
homes. 


WsMaik,: 


FLOWEBS  FOB  THE  ALTAB. 


327 


B  pun- 
Thrice 
you  be 
}le  and 
driven 
R,omaa 
kte. 
osite  tho 

jire  me 
ou  pass 
iperor. 


Make 


defy  the 
,e.    Yott 

i^ilt  thou 
ipiter  ? 

to  be  ob- 
rUended.] 

frequently 
the  Augei 
she  knows 


last  time 
[ghout  the 
nee  to  thy 
jstors  wor- 
sarths  and 


Helen.  Your  gods  are  but  demons;  and  had  they  been 
mortals,  they  would  have  been,  by  your  own  account  of  them, 
a  disgrace  to  humanity.  Your  temples  are  dens  of  the  vilest 
wickedness ;  your  emperor  is  a  base  tyrant,  and  deserves  him- 
self to  be  torn  by  the  beasts  of  the  curcus.  I  defy  him  and 
you,  together  with  all  the  tortures  you  can  inflict,  and  desire 
to  be  led  to  martyrdom. 

Agnes  [owirfe].  Oh,  how  good  Helen  is  I  how  noble  she 
looks  !  I  should  never  be  able  to  say  all  that. 

Oswald  to  Eden.  So  thou  pratest,  dost  thoul'  By  the 
emperor's  command,  thus  will  I  silence  thee.  [J7e  gives  her 
a  blow  with  the  rod. 

Helen  [angrily].  Don't,  Oswald  !    You  hurt  me. 

Osuxdd.  Hurt  yon  ?  that  is  impossible.  I  hit  Agnes  much 
harder,  and  she  only  smiled.    I  did  not  hurt  you,  I  am  sure. 

Helen.  You  did,  Oswald ;  and  I  will  not  play  witn  you  if 
you  do  it  again. 

Oawald.  And  I  will  not  play  with  you  if  yon  call  me 
Oswald  ;  you  are  breaking  the  rules  of  the  game,  to  call  me 
Oswald  instead  of  lictor. 

They  seem  about  to  quarrel  Tiolently. 

Angel  to  Agnes.  Make  peace  between  them ;  that  will  be 
a  flower  for  the  altar. 

Agnes.  Dear  Oswald,  I  think  yoa  must  have  hurt  Helen  a 
little  more  than  you  intended ;  for  see,  there  is  a  blue  mark 
on  her  arm.  Had  we  not  better  leave  off  this  part  of  the 
game?  Suppose  the  lictor  should  suddenly  be  converted; 
and  then  we  can  all  be  Christians  going  together  to  martyr- 
dom, carrying  our  palms  and  smging  our  hynms. 

Helen.  With  all  my  heart. 

Osioald.  Very  well,  I  am  ready ;  and  for  a  beginning  I  will 
kick  down  the  altar  of  Jupiter,  and  throw  away  my  fasces. 

_^  [Exeunt. 

Scene  IV. 

The  chtldren  are  walking  in  procession,  bearing  their  mock  palms.  Hblex 
and  AoNss  have  tlieir  hands  bound.  They  sing  "  Ave  maris  Stella." 
A  group  of  little  villagers  stand  in  the  road,  looking  through  the  ga'M}  of 
the  garden  to  listen  and  to  watch  them  as  they  pass. 


328 


THE  TUIBD  READEB. 


m 


la  Child.  Well,  if  that  ain't  beautiful  ?  I  wonder  whether 
we  could  play  at  that,  or  whether  it  could  be  only  for  gentle- 
folks. 

2d  Child.  Why  shouldn't  us  ?  If  us  can  sing  in  the 
church,  us  has  as  good  a  right  as  they  any  how  and  any- 
where. 

Angel  to  Agnes.  Love  the  poor  and  welcome  them  CYery- 
where.  ' 'i   ^~'i%  ■     '   ,  '■ 

Agnes.  Perhaps  this  may  be  a  flower  for  the  altar. 

She  mns  to  her  mother,  who  is  Bitting  readinfif  on  one  of  the  garden-seats, 
'  and  asks  permission  for  the  village  children  *-*  join  their  procession. 
This  being  granted,  Aones  tells  the  children  where  to  find  the  bundle 
of  palms,  and  again  takes  her  place  behind  Hblkm.  They  walk  on, 
singing,  "Virgo,  eingalaris,  inter  omnesmitis,"  A;c.,&c.  Kitty  Olivkb, 
who  is  weeding  a  flower  bed,  looks  up  when  she  hears  their  voices,  and 
calls  to  the  gardener.  .^, 

'  KUiy.  John,  John,  come  here  and  hearken.     Tou  have 

heard  me  tell  about  Miss  Agnes'  singing.    Gome  and  listen  to 

it  yourself,  and  you  will  say  with  me  that  there  is  not  one  of 

them  to  be  compared  with  her.    Bless  her  little  heart  1  she 

sings  like  an  angel,  as  she  is. 

AoNES,  who  hears  this,  blushes. 

Agnes  to  her  Angel  guardian.    If  it  will  be  a  flower  for  the 

altar  to  shun  human  praise,  let  me  sing  in  my  heart  only,  and 

do  you  sing  for  me. 

The  Angel  sings,  and  Aomes  keeps  silence.  They  walk  along  the  bank  of 
the  river,  singbig  the  Litany  of  Loretto,  when  the  village  children  arrive 
carrying  their  mock  palms :  they  follow  Uie  procession,  adjoin  in  the 
litany. 

OsvocM.  {turning  sharjAy  round'].  Who  is  that  roaring  the 
Ora  pro  nobis,  spoiling  our  singing  ? 

Ist  ChUd.  [slinking  back].  Twasn't  me,  sir. 

2d  Child,  [pulling  his  forelock,  and  scraping  a  rusliG 
bow].  I  humbly  ax  your  pardon,  sir. 

Sd  Child  [grunMing^.  I  don't  see  what  harm  there  is, 
when  missis  gave  us.  leave. 

ith  Child,  [sturdily].  Mother  says  that  the  day  may  come 
when  the  quality  of  the  gentlefolks  will  be  glad  enough  to 
have  the  prayers  of  the  poor. 


FLOWERS  FOR  THE  ALTAB. 


329 


Eden  [loith  a  patronizing  air].  And  your  mothicr  said  very 
right,  my  dear ;  so,  since  mamma  has  given  you  pennission, 
yon  may  walk  in  our  precession ;  only  yon  must  take  care  to 
keep  at  a  respectfhl  distance,  and  not  to  sing  too  lond. 
The  Tillage  children  fall  back. 

Angel  to  Agnes.  Our  Lord  so  loved  the  poor,  that  he  be- 
came one  of  them,  and  lived  among  them  as  his  friends. 

Agnes.  Let  my  littleness  be  of  itself  an  humble  flower  for 

our  Lord.    I  am  unworthy  to  be  the  least  among  the  poor, 

since  he  so  loved  them. 

She  retires,  and  mingles  with  the  village  children.  When  the  litanies 
are  ended,  Hblkm  and  Oswald  stand  still,  and  the  rest  await  their 
orders. 

Helen.  I  am  tired  of  walking  in  procession  and  singing,  are 
not  you  ?    What  shall  we  do  next  ? 
One  of  the  village  children  advances  with  a  basket  of  roses  in  his  hand. 

i^aild  to  Oswald.  If  yon  please,  sir,  I  found  this  in  the 
summer-house,  where  Miss  Agnes  sent  us  for  our  flags  and 
bulrushes;  and  thi'^king  mayhap  you  wanted  these  roses  to 
dress  up  for  your  procession,  I  made  bold  to  bring  them  with 
me  here. 

Oswald.  Oh,  that  is  famous  t  We  are  now  in  the  amphi- 
theatre, awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  emperor  Diocletian,  who 
is  anxious  to  witness  the  tortures  of  the  Christian  martyrs. 
Somebody  must  represent  the  emperor  Diocletian,  and  none 
can  cu:t  that  part  so  well  as  myself ;  because  I  am  up  in  the 
Roman  history,  and  understand  Latin  and  all  that.  I  will 
just  go  behind  that  arbntus  to  arrange  my  toga,  and  to  throw 
away  my  palm ;  and  then  you,  Charlie  Baker,  you  will  do  for 
a  trumpeter  to  announce  my  arrival ;  and  all  the  rest,  except 
Helen  and  Agnes,  must  cry,  "Long  live  Caesar  !  long  live  the 
immortal  Diocletian  1 "  and  must  strew  these  roses  in  my  path 
when  I  arrive.    This  basket  comes  just  in  the  right  time. 

Agnes.  No,  Oswald,  no  I  Pray  do  not  touch  those  roses ; 
they  were  gathered  from  my  own  garden,  and  you  know  what 
for.  , 

Oswald.  If  I  choose  to  have  them,  I  should  like  to  see  you 
prevent  me  I    I  will  make  you  repent  o'  it  if  you  try. 


i^^JfecfC^ 


— .^  '^,"  '^•>  :.'^^:'«N*»wiaijjii|,^, 


330 


THE  THIBD  BEAI)EB. 


5'f 


Angel  Courage  to  suffer  for  justice' sake  is  a  flower  worthy 
of  the  altar. 

Agnes.  Oswald,  yon  shall  not  touch  one  of  those  flowers. 
They  are  neither  yours  nor  mine ;  they  were  given  to  our 
Blessed  Lady,  and  she  shall  have  them. 

Oswald  [sarcmticaUy].  Oh,  ho  1  Agnes  turned  vixen,  and 
daring  to  dictate  to  me :  that  is  capital  I  It  is  very  remark- 
able that  I  don't  feel  more  frightened.  Never  was  cooler  in 
my  life,  ha,  ha,  ha  I  [He  holds  the  basket  over  his  head  and 
laughs.] 

Angel.  To  bear  a£Eronts  and  mockery  is  a  choice  flower,  and 
very  dear  to  our  Lord. 

Agnes  [meekly].  Oswald,  I  forgive  you  from  my  haart ; 
but  pray  give  me  those  flowers. 

The  poor  children  sarronnd  her. 

Omnes.  Never  mind.  Miss  Agnes,  you  shall  have  plenty  of 
flowers  for  our  Lady's  altar ;  we  will  all  go  and  gather  the 
very  best  we  have,  and  will  be  back  again  in  ten  minutes. 
They  ran  in  different  directions  to  gather  flowers  for  Agnes. 

Oswald.  There  1  do  you  hear  ?  you  will  have  twice  as  many 
as  these  in  ten  minutes,  so  don't  be  bothering  me  any  more, 
for  I  mean  to  have  them,  and  have  them  t  will. 

Angd  to  Agnes.  Zeal  for  the  house  of  our  Lord  is  beauti- 
ful and  fragrant  to  hun. 

Agnes.  No,  Oswald,  no:  you  shall  not  even  touch  them. 
What  is  given  to  the  Church  is  already  holy,  and  I  will  pray 
that  you  may  not  have  one  of  them. 

Helen.  For  shame,  Oswald  I  What  a  coward  yon  are  to 
take  advantage  of  a  child  like  Agnes  I  Put  down  the  basket 
this  instant,  or  I  will  go  and  tell  mamma. 

Oswald  [angrUy].  Go  along  with  you  then,  and  tell  tales, 
and  see  what  you  will  get  by  them.  There  is  no  use  in  hold- 
ing out  your  hands,  Agnes ;  they  are  tied  fast  enough. 

He  runs  across  the  bridge  pursued  by  Helen.  When  he  has  reached  the 
other  side,  he  tiirows  the  bask«t  into  the  mill-stream,  and  laughs  scorn- 
fully.    AoNES  bursts  into  tears. 

Angel.  Pray  for  Oswald. 

Agnea,  And  do  you  also  pray  for  him  as  I  da 


FLOWERS  FOB  THB  ALTAB. 


331 


worthy 

flowers, 
to  oar 

:en,  and 
remark- 
ooler  in 
ead  and 

wer,  and 

f  heart; 


plenty  of 
ather  the 
utes. 
nes. 

easnmny 
Etny  more, 

is  beaatir 

ach  them, 
will  pray 

rovi.  are  to 
the  basket 

tell  tales, 
ise  in  hold- 

reached  th« 
aughs  scorn- 


The  basket  is^'hlrled  ronnd  in  the  eddy  ontil  it  is  almoit  with'in  reach. 
AUNK8  seizes  u  long  Bticl(,»'id  approaching  the  edge  of  the  river  tries  to 
draw  her  prise  to  shore ;  ..^  touches  it,  and  seems  on  the  eve  of  gaining 
lier  itoint,  but  her  hands  being  bonnd,  she  is  prevented  from  controlling 
her  own  movements  or  those  of  the  stick;  she  loses  her  footing,  and 
falls  into  the  i  'ver.  Her  Angel  guardian  folds  her  close  within  his  wings 
as  she  is  carried  by  the  stream  out  of  sight,  ronnd  a  sudden  bend  of  the 
river  between  the  bridge  and  the  mill. 

Otiwald  screams:  Oh,  the  mill  I  the  mill !  My  God !  let 
me  not  see  it !  let  me  not  do  it  I  \_He  covers  his  face  with 
his  handii,  and  throws  himself  on  the  ground  in  agony  and 
terror.'] 

Helen  \_ falling  on  her  knees'].  Mother  of  good  counsel 
pray  for  us  1  Refuge  of  sinners,  pray  for  us  I  [^She  turns  to 
Oswald,  takes  hold  of  his  arm,  and  fpeaks  quietly  but  firm- 
ly.] Oswald,  we  must  do  what  we  can,  and  not  despair  of 
the  goodness  of  Almighty  God.  Untie  my  hands.  [Oswald 
obeys  mechanicdly.]  Now  run  as  fast  as  you  can  to  the 
mill ;  take  the  short  cut  by  the  lane.  I  see  Dick  the  miller 
leaning  over  his  gate ;  he  will  know  whether  any  thing  can 
be  done.  Go,  and  may  God  speed  you,  while  I  run  for  Father 
Dominic. 

Helen  flies  away  like  lightning.  Oswald  makes  towards  the  lane,  but 
can  scarcely  stagger  along ;  his  knees  tremble,  and  he  is  obliged  to  catch 
at  the  branches  of  the  hedge  to  keep  himself  fh)m  falling.  Dick,  the 
miller,  perceives  that,  something  is  wrong,  and  rune  to  meet  him  as 
quickly  as  his  old  legs  will  carry  him. 

Scene  V.  . 

The  road  from  the  village.    Father  DoKimo  and  Hblbn  are  harrying 
along.    The  clock  strikes. 

Father  Dominic  [thinking  aloud].  One  o'clock  I  All 
this  must  have  happened  a  full  hour  ago ;  for  the*  cottage 
where  Helen  found  me  is  a  good  mile  and  a  half  from  the 
bridge. — [7b  Helen.]  I  would  not  bid  you  cease  to  hope,  my 
child,  for  with  Almighty  God  all  things  are  possible  ;  but  be 
prepared  to  submit  in  all  things  to  his  adorable  will.  Your 
little  sister  Iras  ripe  for  heaven ;  and  if  our  Lcrd  desired  to 
take  her  to  himself,  we  have  no  right  to  murmur  if  he  re- 
luses  to  vrork  a  miracle  for  our  sakes  merely,  6iir  selfish  Mk«i  I 


r 


.^>'.-;^e*«*i;;Ai";*i».' 


'**«^*««'««*'«*i:/ 


332 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


Hklbn  sobf  heaTily  from  time  to  time,  and  they  walk  on  for  lome  wty 
withoQt  laying  another  word. 

ffelen.  Who  is  that  coming  across  the  field  towards  the 
road? 

Father  D.  It  is  Dick  the  miller ;  he  is  hurryiug  towards  us. 

Dick  nhoutit:  Not  that  way,  Father  ;  to  the  house,  to  the 

house ! 

He  take*  off  hia  broad  hat,  and  wipes  his  face,  which  is  as  pale  as  death, 

and  qoickly  Joins  them. 

Father  D.  To  the  house,  did  you  say  ? 
Dick.  Yes,  Father ;  she  is  found  and  carried  home. 
Father  D.  [anide].  I  dare  not  ask  the  particulars — I  see 
how  it  is. 
Hden.  Oh,  tell  me  ;  is  she  dead  ? 

The  miller  looks  at  her  sorrowfally. 

Helen.  Oh,  let  me  go  on  by  myself:  I  cannot  wait  for  yon : 
I  must  go  and  comfort  mamma. 

Father  D.  Go,  my  child  ;  and  may  your  heavenly  Mother 
help  yon  in  your  task,  \eicii  Helen!]  Now,  tell  me,  I  pray 
you,  every  particular.  Who  found  her  ?  Was  life  quite  extinct 
when  she  was  taken  from  the  mill-wheel  ? 

Dick.  The  mill-wheel  I  \he  shudders.']  No,  thank  God,  we 
are  spared  that  trial  1  Her  cheek  is  as  smooth  as  a  lily  flower, 
and  as  pale,  and  there  is  neither  scratch  nor  stain  on  her  little 
white  limbs ;  and  there  she  lies,  with  a  smile  on  her  face  like 
an  angel  asleep. 

Father  D.  God  is  indeed  merciful  m  the  midst  of  his  judg- 
ments. 

Dick.  Here  is  how  it  was :  when  Master  Oswald  told  me 
what  had  happened,  away  I  ran  at  once  to  the  mill  to  stop 
the  machinery ;  and  (God  forgive  my  want  of  faith  !)  I  said, 
"  Of  a  certainty  it  is  too  late ;  nothing  can  hinder  the  course 
of  a  mill-stream,  end  we  shall  find  her  all  torn  and  man^^led 
among  the  wheels.''  No,  sir,  she  had  never  reached  the  niilL 
Away  I  went  up  the  river  towards  the  bridge ;  and  there,  just 
in  the  bend,  on  the  side  next  the  mill,  there  she  lay  among  the 
flags  and  sedges.  The  current  must  have  carried  her  within 
reach  of  them,  fm  she  bad  caught  hold  of  the»n  with  the  clutch 


PLOWEBS  FOR  THE  ALTAB. 


333 


■ome  wty 
ards  the 

wards  us. 
le,  to  the 

e  as  death, 


e. 

irs — I  see 


t  for  you : 

ily  Mother 
me,  I  pray 
lite  extinct 

ik  God,  we 
lily  flower, 
a  her  little 
it  face  like 

[>f  his  judg- 

ild  told  me 
mill  to  stop 
bh  1)  I  said, 
r  the  course 
kud  maUi'^led 
led  the  niilL 
id  there,  just 
Jy  among  the 
d  her  within 
tb  the  clateh 


of  death ;  and  this  it  was  that  stopped  her  from  being  carried 
over  the  weir.  She  had  so  firm  a  hold  of  those  flags  that  I 
was  obliged  to  cut  them  off  near  the  roots  to  disengage  her  ; 
and  to  see  her  lying  there,  with  her  hands  bound,  and  the  long 
leaves  in  them  that  they  tell  me  she  had  been  playing  at  mar- 
tyrs with,  and  with  that  heavenly  smile  on  her  countenance  I 
I  never  should  forget  that  sight  if  I  were  to  live  a  hundred 
years,  and  a  hundred  more  on  the  top  of  them. 

Father  D.  That  sight,  Dick,  will  be  remembered  to  all 
eternity  in  heaven.  It  is  one  worthy  the  attention  of  men 
and  of  angels. 

Dick.  Well,  sir,  and  that  was  not  all ;  for  close  beside  her, 
among  the  rushes,  lay  that  basket  of  roses  that  I  saw  yon 
gathering  this  morning  out  of  her  own  little  garden.  They 
say  that  her  last  words  were  to  give  those  roses  to  the  Blessed 
Virgin. 
'    Father  D.  And  Oswald — ^how  does  he  bear  it  ? 

JHck.  Oh,  sir,  he  is  very  quiet ;  but  still  I  think  he  is  clear 
out  of  his  senses,  for  he  will  have  it  that  Miss  Agnes  is  not 
dead.  I  carried  her  home  in  my  arms,  and  sent  my  wife  first 
to  prepare  madam  for  the  sorrow  that  was  coming  upon  her. 
As  for  Master  Oswald,  he  had  taken  the  basket  and  had  gone 
on  too.  He  walked  along  without  even  so  much  as  lifting  up 
his  eyes  ;  but  I  saw  him  from  time  to  time  kissing  the  basket 
that  he  held  in  his  hand,  as  if  he  was  not  worthy  to  carry  it, 
until  I  lost  sight  of  him  altogether.  I  slackened  my  steps,  sir, 
as  I  came  near  the  house — for  I  had  not  the  heart  to  think  of 
the  mother — and  I  was  plotting  in  my  head  how  I  should 
behave,  and  what  I  should  say,  when  who  should  I  see  but 
madam  herself  coming  out  of  the  gate  With  the  servants,  and 
walking  without  hurry  or  agitation,  as  collected  and  calm  as 
when  she  goes  up  the  aisle  of  a  Sunday  morning.  She  comes 
up  to  me,  and  takes  Miss  Agnes  into  her  arms,  oh,  so  tenderly  1 
and  walks  straight  up  the  steps,  and  through  the  porch  into 
the  church,  and  there  she  laid  her  at  the  foot  of  the  altar,  and 
said  the  Salve  Regma,  in  which  we  all  joined.  Master  Oswald 
had  been  there  before  us,  for  the  basket  of  flowers  was  on  our 
liftdy's  altar ;  but  he  did  not  come  near  us.    He  had  hidden 


■  "«*^*^«*»i***A,  „ 


'tf^itf'fttiMM-.dwa^UaiVM^'  ^ 


334 


THE  IHIBD  BEADEB. 


U 


himself  in  some  corner  when  we  came  in,  for  I  heard  him 
sobbing.  When  we  left  the  church  I  followed  them  home. 
Madam  carried  Miss  Agnes  herself  np«tairs,  where  every  thing 
had  been  made  ready  to  receive  her ;  and  when  I  came  away, 
the  mother  and  the  old  norse  were  busy  chafing  the  body,  and 
using  all  the  means  possible  to  restore  life,  if  such  a  thing  were 
possible.  When  I  came  out  of  the  room  to  go  and  meet  you, 
sir,  there  was  Master  Oswald  outside  the  door  on  his  knees. 
He  will  not  stir  from  that  spot ;  but  he  tells  everybody  that 
goes  by  that  his  sister  is  not  dead,  and  that  she  will  not  die, 
because  then  he  would  be  a  murderer.  But  as  to  that — as  to 
any  chance  of  that  1 — I  carried  her  home  in  my  arms,  and 
bless  your  heart  alive,  sir  1 

Here  Diok  shakea  his  gray  head,  and  the  tears  trickle  down  his  cheeks. 


Scene  VI. 

A  bedchamber.  Aonbs  is  lying  pale  and  apparently  lifeless  on  her  little 
bed.  Her  mother  and  Helen,  with  the  nurse,  are  chafing  her  limbs  and 
applying  restoratiTes.    No  one  speaks. 

Enter  Fathbb  Dominio. 

Father  D.  Sweet  little  lamb  I  dear  to  our  Lord  1  Your 
prayer  of  to-day  went  straight  up  to  heaven ;  it  was  soon 
answered. 

He  kneels  beside  the  bed ;  the  others  also  kneel.    A  panse. 

Father  D.  to  the  mother.  Was  there  any  thing  like  life  ? 
Had  you,  have  you,  any  hope  that  life  is  not  quite  extinct  ? 

Mother.  I  have  fancied,  from  time  to  time,  that  there  was 
a  slight  pulsation  of  the  heart,  but  my  own  beats  so  strongly 
that  I  may  ea«ilir  ^  mistaken. 

Father  Dominic  )ri»-«!«  his  hand  on  the  child's  heart,  and  bending  his  ear 
down  lintens  attentively ;  i.e  then  takes  a  glass  from  the  table,  and  holds 
it  to  her  mouth.  The  mother  watches  anxiously.  He  gives  the  glass  to 
the  motbfx. 

Mother.  The  '/lass  is   'inmed  by  her  breath,— she  lives  ! 
Father  D.  N    time  must  now  be  lost  in  giving  her  the  Last 
lacraaiient  of  the  Church.    Perhaps  it  was  for  this  great  grace 


FLOWERS  FOR  THE  ALTAR. 


335 


rd  him 
home. 
y  thing 
9  away, 
dy,  and 
ag  were 
Bet  yott, 
knees. 
KJy  that 
not  die, 
t — as  to 
ms,  and 


that  this  little  ^ark  of  life  was  allowed  to  remain.  You  see 
she  is  perfectly  insensible  to  all  external  things ;  she  is  evi- 
dently unconscious — her  moments  may  be  very  few. 

Mother.  O  Father,  I  will  hope  against  hope  !  If  our  Lord 
has  granted  to  a  mother's  prayer  this  little  breath  of  life,  how 
much  more  will  he  not  bestow  an  answer  to  that  sacrament 
which  pleads  for  life  in  the  very  presence  of  death,  and  to 
which  he  has  given  a  promise  that  it  shall  bring  health  to  the 
sick,  as  well  as  forgiveness  to  the  sinner.  [She  kneels  beside 
Agnes  ari^  whispers  in  her  ear.]  My  child.  Father  Dominic 
is  here,  to  give  you  the  last  sacrament  of  the  Church.  If  you 
have  any  consciousness,  say  a  little  prayer. 

Angd  whispers  to  Agnes :  Jesus,  Mary,  Joseph  ! 


I  cheeks. 


1  her  litfle 
limbs  and 


i  1     Your 
was  soon 

use. 

like  life? 
xtinct  ? 
there  was 

0  strongly 

iding  his  ear 
le,  and  holds 

1  the  glass  to 

B  lives ! 
ler  the  last 
jreat  grace 


Scene  VII. 

The  same  room,  darkened.    Hblbn  sits  watching  beside  the  bed,  and  Arom 
time  to  time  peeps  between  the  curtains. 

Helen.  She  still  sleeps ;  and  now  she  looks  like  herself 
again.  How  little  did  I  think  we  should  ever  see  again  that 
pink  bloom  on  her  cheek,  and  those  hands,  which  were  so  rigid 
but  a  few  hours  since,  relaxed  by  sleep,  and  meekly  crossed 
upon  her  bosom  as  usual.  Oh,  how  delightful  to  sit  here,  if 
it  were  only  to  hear  her  breathe  !  even  for  that  I  could  never 
be  weary  of  thanking  God.  The  last  five  hours  seem  only 
like  so  OMM^r  minutes ;  and  yet  I  have  done  nothing  but  sit 
here,  an4  listen  to  the  same  breathing  that  I  might  have  heard 
at  any  time  for  the  last  seven  years.  How  little  we  think  of 
the  Miercies  every  day  bestowed  upon  us,  just  because  we  are 
newr  without  them  !  The  very  reason  that  we  should  never 
be  without  gratitude  to  God  I  Let  me  offer  up  every  breath 
of  my  life  now,  once  for  all,  in  grateful  adoration.  But  see ! 
she  moves,  she  wakes  ;  with  her  eyes  still  closed  she  makes 
the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  offers  up  her  first  thoughts  to  GoJ. 

Agnes.  Is  Oswald  there  ? 

Helen.  No,  sweetest,  it  is  I.  You  shall  not  see  Oswald 
until  yon  wish  it  yourself.  But  he  is  not  going  to  tease  you 
any  mor^. 


^i£3btfk||yMuv: 


336 


THE  THIBD  BEADEB. 


? 


f 


Agnes.  Good  morning,  dear  Helen.  Give  me  a  kiss,  and 
then  ask  Oswald  to  come  to  me  directly  ;  bat  do  not  disturb 
mamma,  for  she  wants  rest.  \ExU  Helen. 

Enter  Oswald. 

Agnea.  Come  hither,  dear ;  I  want  to  speak  to  yon. 

Oswald  comes  forward  in  tears,  and  buries  his  head  in  the  counterpane  as 
be  kneels  beside  Aonks.  Aomis  pnts  her  arm  roond  him,  and  draws 
him  near  enough  to  whisper  in  his  ear — 

I  know  all  aboat  it,  dear  ;  I  know  what  you  are  thinking  of. 
Oswald  beats  his  breast,  but  does  not  say  a  word. 

My  poor  Oswald  !  how  much  you  have  suffered  !  Would  you 
do  any  thing  I  asked  you  now  ? 

Oswald  kisses  her  hand  and  sobs. 

You  will.  Well,  then,  promise  me  that,  when  at  any  time 
you  think  of  yesterday  and  of  all  that  happened  to  us,  you 
will  think  of  it  in  this  way :  Once  upon  a  time  Almighty  God, 
in  his  infinite  mercy,  preserved  my  little  Agnes  in  a  wonderful 
way,  in  order  that  she  might  love  me  and  I  love  her,  and  both 
of  us  love  him  a  thousand  times  more  than  ever  we  did  before, 
or  ever  could  have  done  otherwise. 

Oswald.  I  will. 

Agne8.  And  when  you  cannot  help  reproaching  yourself, 
you  will  not  do  it  more  unkindly  than  you  can  help,  but  will 
say,  "Out  of  this  fault,  with  God's  help,  shall  spring  ten  vir- 
tues?" 

Oswald.  I  will. 

Agnea.  And  now,  dear  Oswald,  ^ve  me  a  drink.  I  am 
still  very  weak,  but  shall  soon  be  well  If  Helen  comes  in, 
tell  her  it  is  your  turn  to  watch.  There,  put  your  hiand  under 
my  cheek,  that  I  may  kiss  it  when  I  awake.  That  is  nice  ;  I 
can  go  to  sleep  again  now.  Good-night,  dear.  How  happy 
we  shall  all  be,  now,  if  Almighty  God  gives  us  the  grace  of 
perseverance  to  the  end !  , 

THE   ENDi 


■f 


it  &ny  time 
i  to  us,  you 
nighty  God, 
a  wonderful 
er,  and  both 
e  did  before, 


[ng  yourself, 
lelp,  but  will 
►ring  ten  vir- 


Irink.  I  am 
ien  comes  in, 
IT  hand  under 
lat  is  mce  ;  I 
How  happy 
the  grace  of 


